


Miles Scortillusque

by Sineala



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitute, Ancient Rome, First Time, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-17
Updated: 2009-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 74. A lonely Roman soldier on leave in Pompeii meets a Celt at a brothel. Together they each learn that the other is not what they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minus via laedit

**Author's Note:**

> The title means "The soldier and the whore." Thanks to Lysimache for cheerleading, Rome-picking, and beta. Gratias tibi ago, mea columba.
> 
> I should probably mention that I've gone with "choose not to use archive warnings" as I am uncomfortable picking a dividing line, as this hits most of the archive warning areas, but not, in my opinion, to a great degree or a degree unexpected in this setting. You should know that this is not a death story (no Vesuvius!), and that there are a few issues surrounding consent, as could reasonably be the case with any story about slave-prostitutes, but the B/D relationship is consensual (with said cultural provisos). There are mentions of past rape and a bit of violence, though not what I would call graphic. There is also brief (non-explicit) sex between two teenage characters who are of age by the standards of their cultures -- seventeen and sixteen years old, respectively -- presented in flashback. Okay, yeah, that would get the archive warning.
> 
> That about covers it. Enjoy.

**Ante diem tertium Nonas Julias, 827 Ab Urbe Condita**   
**(The fifth of July, 74 A.D.)**

_The slope is wet and uneven with hoof prints and sandal prints. It isn't a place he would have picked for any engagement; years of experience tell him that as easily and naturally as breathing. Easier, even, because there have been times when merely breathing was the hardest battle. It would have been slippery anyway, muddy from rain, but it is more perilous still as the dirt mixes with rivulets of blood, too much blood, too many of his men dead or dying._

_He isn't sure where he is, or when. It isn't any battle in particular he can identify, and the grey countryside could be anywhere. Who is he fighting? Celts? Germani? The faces of his opponents shift and blur. There have been so many._

_He must have been unhorsed before now, he knows. He is cavalry, an officer. He shouldn't be on the ground in the fight at all. But here he is, ankle deep in muck, every nerve twitching as he tries to separate the dead from the threats. There is no line to hold, only chaos. He has no shield like the pedites; he is ridiculously bare, exposed in the light armour of the horsemen, his honour and his downfall in one._

_His feet slip in the mud, and as he catches himself -- slow, too slow, he is too old for this -- a barbarian leaps forward. Metal flashes in the grey light of day, rage shines in green eyes. Time slows again as he reaches for his sword, and as his hand presses against the hilt, slides on it, he hears more than feels the blade against his throat and knows that now, now he is going to die--_

Gaius Cornelius Bellonus awakens suddenly, his hand driven painfully into his bare hip, reaching for the short sword that isn't there. His heart hammers in his chest, thunderously loud, in counterpoint to his ragged breathing. He is covered in sweat, short hair plastered to his scalp.

In the courtyard, birds chirp at each other. He steadies himself, breathes slower, deeper. He is safe. Wherever that was, he is no longer there, if he ever was to begin with. He opens one eye first, slowly, and then the other. A cubiculum. The walls are adorned with painted scenes of birds, much like the birds outside. The tiny window high above him lets in early-morning light and a taste of the day's heat that is to come. He is lying rigidly on a straw mattress, soft enough, and he has soaked the summer-weight blanket through with sweat.

Memory comes back to Bellonus. This is his cousin's house in Pompeii, in the heart of the city. Last night was his first night here. He was welcomed as a guest, an honoured soldier on leave, reclining in the favoured spot on the best couch in the triclinium over dinner. His plan is to settle down, relax. Let the fighting go. He hoped the dreams would cease the farther he rode from the frontier, but they did not, or at least, they have not yet. It seems that even in the heart of the empire, far from the provincial skirmishes, he does not know how not to be a soldier.

It is early yet, but not so early that the slaves are not awake, and soon there is a rustling of the curtain as Felix enters, carrying his tunic and toga. For one mad instant Felix's pleasant Germanic face shifts, and in Bellonus' eyes he becomes savage, warlike, an attacker. _Strike, strike now_, his mind says. An instant later and it is gone, replaced by the smiling face of his slave. Bellonus exhales in relief.

"Greetings, _domine_," Felix says, politely. He is always so. "Did you sleep well?"

Bellonus grimaces and waves a hand. The gesture, he is appalled to see, is almost spasmodic. "I was having--"

"Ah." The man nods, and Bellonus is spared having to finish the sentence. He's owned the man since almost the beginning of his posting to Germania Inferior, five years ago, and Felix has been woken by his screams in the night more than once. He hopes, belatedly, that he was silent this time. It was one thing on campaign -- he knows he was never the only one -- but quite another for his nightmares to wake his cousin, a merchant whom Bellonus wouldn't suspect of even knowing which end of a sword to hold. He isn't sure whether he pities him for it, or envies him.

He stands wordlessly, kicking the blanket off, taking the tunic, sliding it over his head. He belts it as tightly as it will go. It is a silly gesture, as it will hardly be visible under the toga, but Bellonus knows what they say about men with loose-belted tunics. He nods, satisfied with the feel of the wool tight against his skin, and bends to lace his sandals. When he stands up, Felix is holding out his toga, and wraps it around and over him, just as he always does. The narrow purple stripe of the tunic stands out against the whiteness, the mark of his rank. He is a tribunus angusticlavius, junior officer of a legion, one of five. After fourteen years in the army, he has more than earned it.

He takes breakfast, bread and water. His cousin Marcus Cornelius is nowhere to be seen -- probably in his office already, working on his accounts, to judge by the grumbling coming from that direction. It was a surprise to Bellonus that the man extended him an invitation at all, given his relationship with the family, but he welcomes the solitude.

He stretches lazily, walking into the sunlight of the atrium, and he smiles as he looks at the sun shining on the water of the impluvium. He is on leave, and it is his first full day in Pompeii. He could do a thousand things. He could go to the markets and shops with Felix and spend every denarius of his pay on useless fripperies. He could go to the harbour and watch the ships come in. It is a pleasant town, not like the crush and crowding of the capital, though admittedly he never saw Rome at its best. He knows some of his old comrades have settled here; he could visit them. He could give up the soldiering life, buy a farm, and retire to the country. He almost laughs as he thinks of it. He couldn't, really. What would he _do_ without war?

"May your morning be pleasant," he says to Felix, who has followed him. He tries always to be kind to Felix. One always hears the stories of the clever, lazy slaves, but Bellonus knows the tellers are the same men beating them for the slightest indiscretion, real or perceived, constantly calling them furciferes or vapulones as reminders of their fate. Those same men would call him soft, but as an officer, he knows men perform their worst under fear.

The man's face shines. "Thank you, _domine_. Will you be going to the baths?"

"I will, later," he says, deciding the rest as he is saying it, "and thence to visit my old comrades. You need not attend me until evening."

A free half-day, then, and Felix grins even more brightly at the prospect. Bellonus has offered to manumit him -- more than once, even -- and every time Felix has refused. He is not ill-treated, he says, his tasks are pleasant enough, and his food is assured him, and that is more than he could say for life as a freedman.

Bellonus' mouth twitches in response, as emotion is as ever unseemly, and he raises a hand in farewell as Felix steps out of the house onto the streets of Pompeii.

He spends the morning reading in the atrium; his cousin has quite a collection. He is particularly fond of Seneca, and he loses himself in the writing. It is better, to be distracted thus.

The sun outside looks to be just past noon; the baths will probably have opened. The forum baths, he decides, will be best; he has hardly seen any of Pompeii, and is the forum not the best place to start?

Once out of the house, he picks his way nimbly across the raised stepping stones of the road and surveys the crowd, choosing a short Gaulish-looking man in a worn tunic, at a whim.

"Excuse me, but can you direct me to the forum baths?" he asks, and the man turns to look at him. His eyes widen as he takes in the stripe of his tunic. Surely they are used to men of higher class than his, even, here in this city?

"It's -- it's quite easy to find, sir," the man stammers in passable Latin. "You only go down this street a bit until you come to the street of the Stabian baths. It's wide; you'll know it. There is a tavern on that corner with grapes on its sign. You'll turn left there, walk down that street, then right on the corner where the Stabian baths are, and then you follow that street all the way to the forum, and there you are."

"Excellent." Bellonus smiles. "And the baths?"

"Oh!" the man says, sounding abashed to have forgotten that detail. "They will be at the very end of the forum, past Eumachia's cloth-workers hall and the markets and all the temples. It's crowded there, sir, but you can't miss the baths."

"I thank you," Bellonus says, and the man nods politely as they go their separate ways.

On the way down the street, he sees the familiar sign of a barber, and pauses, considering. He ought to, and it is early yet to go to the baths, but -- a knife at his throat, considering his dream, could end badly, at least for the poor barber. He is well-shaven enough. Perhaps later.

The directions are accurate, and in a short time Bellonus finds himself in the bustling centre of activity that is Pompeii's forum, buying a quick meal from one of the sausage-sellers as he heads to the baths. The forum is crowded with people from all parts of the empire, speaking languages Bellonus doesn't even recognise.

He pays his fee to the doorkeeper and makes his way to the palaestra. Even so early, the courtyard is already crowded. There are men around the edges, talking under the walkway, a few groups of wrestlers, some men sparring with wooden swords, and a heavy-set youth throwing a discus in one of the few clear areas, with his slave fetching it back for him. Bellonus watches as the boy narrowly avoids hitting a statue and tries not to snicker. Amateur.

Amid the chatter, a familiar voice booms out from somewhere behind him: "_O Philippe_!"

Bellonus can't quite place it, but he knows as he turns that only a few men in Pompeii would know his speaking-name and thus is not particularly surprised when he sees the man in a plain toga at his left. "Murena!"

Quintus Licinius Murena breaks away from the group of men he was standing with, and he and Bellonus run toward each other, embracing as brothers. Comrades in arms, even, which to Bellonus means more than anything his real brothers might feel for him.

Murena grins broadly at him, his bright eyes sparkling. As he shakes his head in wonderment Bellonus is amused to note that the man's brown hair is still a little longer than strict propriety demands.

"I haven't seen you in -- how many years has it been?" Murena laughs.

Bellonus thinks about it. "You left VIIII Hispana six years after I got there, so that would make it eight, eh?"

"Eight." Murena looks impressed. "You haven't changed. Except, of course--" he nods to the stripe on Bellonus' tunic. "Well done."

He shrugs, modest. "I only followed Cerialis and let his glory shower upon me."

Another amazed grin. "You and Cerialis, Philippos. I'll never understand what you see in him. You could have held much higher rank by now."

Bellonus shakes his head. Murena served under him too, but he never understood and clearly still does not. "It was worth it. And besides, I was fond of Britannia."

Murena gives him a look of disbelief. "You can't mean to say you've spent your whole career there?"

"No," Bellonus laughs, "just most of it. With a few side excursions here and there," he says modestly. If Murena's clever enough, he'll figure out what he was up to in the Year of the Four Emperors. "You?"

"Germania Inferior," he says, pulling a face, and Bellonus winces in sympathy, remembering the most recent rebellion. "Lousy business, but it pays well, eh?"

"That it does," Bellonus agrees, and he is spared from having to say more by the arrival of Murena's two friends, men he doesn't know.

Murena handles the introductions adroitly. "Philippos, this is Lucius Barbatus and Gnaeus Vetus, comrades of mine from Germania. Friends, this is Gaius Bellonus, but he is called Philippos."

Barbatus peers intently at him, and Bellonus knows exactly what he's going to say, as the man takes in the paleness of his skin, his dark blue eyes. "You don't look Greek."

If he had an _as_ for everyone who told him that, he'd be a rich man by now. He sighs and opens his mouth to answer. Luckily, Murena rescues him.

"Philippos is Greek as Greek can be, believe you me. And, as you see, an equestrian." Unusual in so many ways, a nice way of putting it. Bellonus is proud of his heritage if not his family, and in a world where most would take him for a Celt, with his pale skin, it's better to be clear on his origins. Besides, he takes a certain thrill in being called something different.

Barbatus nods, satisfied, but still looking a little suspicious.

"Well, then," Vetus says, clearly more trusting than the other, bouncing impatiently on his feet. "We are, as you can see, ready for the baths, and a friend of Murena must be a good man. Do you care for a friendly challenge, some wrestling, perhaps?"

Bellonus looks over at the circles and then back at the man. He pictures, too easily, pinning the man, arms against his throat, pressing too hard. "I fear I must decline. I have only recently come back from campaign, and I worry that a friendly challenge would not be quite so friendly on my part."

The man claps him on the shoulder and even that makes him jump and twitch. "No matter. Will you join us in the baths, then?"

"Gladly," Bellonus says, and they go.

* * *

They disrobe in the apodyterium and spend only a handful of minutes in the tepidarium before moving on. Bellonus sinks into the hot, hot water of the caldarium and feels all his muscles relax, languid. He hadn't the time for a proper bath when he got in last night, and there was of course no opportunity on the road to do so; all he had time to do last night was deposit his drawn pay with a banker recommended by his cousin, for he could not very well keep that amount lying around.

He's almost forgotten how pleasant it is, the benefits of proper civilisation. He lets his eyes fall shut and for once no visions of battle assail him.

The peace lasts only an instant as Murena's friends crowd onto the bench beside him, and Bellonus opens his eyes in annoyance. The room is practically full, even at this time of day -- no wonder they are so tightly packed. He takes a few breaths, quick, tight in his chest, trying not to panic in the crowd. He's not in battle. The feeling subsides, an eternity later, and he tries desperately to act as a normal man would.

"What is all this?" Bellonus calls across the men to Murena, on his far side. "I've never seen any baths this crowded so early in the afternoon!"

Murena laughs as if he's enjoying that he knows something Bellonus doesn't. "Welcome to Pompeii in the summer, Philippos."

This is uninformative, and the shorter one of his friends, the trusting one -- Vetus, Bellonus thinks -- continues. "Everyone who's anyone comes here for the summer, to escape the capital. It is always thus in the summer."

"Even Cerialis is here," Murena says, and he laughs again as Bellonus looks wildly around the caldarium. "No, not _here_. In Pompeii. He has a villa in the countryside, didn't you know?"

Bellonus shakes his head helplessly. "I didn't know."

His comrade frowns suddenly, and slides over to sit closer, lowering his voice. "Say, then, he didn't offer you a fine position, now that Vespasianus has made him suffect consul? I'm sure that with all the help you gave him and Vespasianus five years ago--"

So Murena does know what he did. Well, no one ever accused him of being stupid. Bellonus sighs.

"I think he would have offered me one," he says carefully, "if I'd wanted it." He has no head for politics, and he knows Cerialis knows it. Bellonus can lead a legion, or part of one, in battle, but in the forum of Rome he'd be dead for sure. Swords, yes, but the art of combat with words is one that has eluded him. "He doesn't need soldiers anymore, where he is."

A friendly smile. "Probably true enough. So if you can't follow Cerialis, now what will you do?"

It's a fair question from a friend, and it's the question Bellonus has been asking himself ever since his former commander took the post. What will he do? He only knows how to be a soldier, but he's no longer sure that's what he wants. It's beginning to get to him, he thinks.

"Oh, you know," Bellonus starts, trying to sound offhand, casual. "I was thinking about taking my earnings and buying some land in the countryside here. Retiring to a farm." He is young, but he certainly has enough money for it, after all he's done.

There is a moment of silence, and then Murena laughs raucously, so loudly that some of the other bathers turn to stare in disapproval.

Bellonus feels his jaw twitch. "It wasn't that funny."

Murena snorts a little. "Sure, I retired early, but I had family money and the army was never for me. But you? The consummate soldier? With your family? At your age? You have to be joking. You'd never--" He stops, suddenly, seeing the look on Bellonus' face. "You're serious, aren't you?"

He nods, and Murena's expression becomes more kindly.

"If you're serious -- well, I know people who are interested in selling. I'm having a dinner party at my home tomorrow night, and you're more than welcome to come."

"You need a ninth guest, eh?" Bellonus teases.

"Not just that. You're new in town, you can meet people, see if they know anyone -- you know how it works."

Bellonus nods, still uneasy about having admitted the desire. "I don't even know if that's what I want. I need to think about it first. Maybe I should go back to the army."

"All right, then," Murena says, standing up. "But you're still invited tomorrow."

He and his friends rise and head immediately to the frigidarium, while Bellonus, after a time, makes his way to the slaves with their oils and strigils. He is in need of more cleansing than water, but he thinks, lying there as the strigil scrapes along his back, that somehow nothing they can do will cleanse him. He tries to keep his eyes open. It's better than the horrors he sees when he closes them.

* * *

Bellonus must have taken a wrong turn coming out of the baths, leaving the forum. He could have sworn he knew which way to go, but he must have done something wrong, for here he is, alone, in a section of Pompeii he doesn't know. For that matter, he hardly knows Pompeii at all. And now what will he do for the rest of the afternoon, if he isn't seeing Murena until tomorrow? Where can he go? Can he even find his cousin's home from here?

The streets are narrow, one very much like the other. He tries a few turnings, but cannot even spy one of the city's three main roads from where he is now. He is well and truly lost. The fact does not alarm him. He is more than capable of guaranteeing his own safety. It is only that he feels -- alone. Not lost. Just lonely.

The sense of loneliness is both unusual and pervasive. There is no reason, Bellonus tells himself, that he should feel this way. He hasn't seen his family, nearby in Neapolis, since the day he joined the army, but that shouldn't affect him now. Besides, he has friends, comrades even, in the city -- Murena, for example. He knows from exchanging hurried letters that Annalis and Macula are both visiting the city for the summer as well. Any of these men would welcome him with open arms; they spent years risking their lives for each other every day. They are friends, and oughtn't that satisfy him?

It doesn't. Friendship isn't what he wants, isn't all of what he wants. His desires are suspended nebulously somewhere beyond it, with no words even to describe them. It isn't exactly lust, either, though his body tells him it certainly wouldn't mind that need being met. He of course has the use of his cousin's slaves; only last night Marcus was telling him lasciviously about his new purchase, a very pretty slave-girl, only just learning Latin. He usually prefers the boys, given a choice, but she did sound intriguing. But she isn't what he wants, either.

It is as if he can have the one desire or the other -- friendship here, baser needs there -- but there is no way to have them met both in one person. Bellonus wishes briefly that he were truly from Greece itself and could hire a hetaera -- to be an intelligent conversationalist at a dinner party, to tell entertaining stories, in all respects to behave as a friend might, and then, as is discreetly understood, to be bedded at the end of the night as a courtesan. But the idea has never worked in the rest of the empire, and besides, Bellonus has never been overfond of the company of women. Not for much beyond the purely physical, at least.

Is it love he wants? The thought makes him stop in the street. He isn't sure he knows what it is; how should he know whether he wants it? He is not old enough, settled enough, yet to take a wife. Would he be one of those men who loves his wife? He doesn't know. Although there was one close call, Bellonus doesn't think he's ever truly been in love, but suddenly a memory assails him, one he can't place -- a masked face in the firelight, legs moving to slide between his -- and one he can -- a laughing, dark-eyed man, an archer whose fingers, callused from the bow, are steady and sure on him. He shoves both of the thoughts away. He may not have known the first man's name, but he knows what happened to the second.

Love is not a wish worth entertaining, he knows; those whom he would love, he cannot. It is not a thing permitted to him, this taboo. But he channels the thoughts as he can, beds slave youths as the closest thing allowed him. Older slaves, not quite acceptable; maybe for a full-blooded Roman they would be, but he is already suspect.

So, boys, he can have. Not men. And never a free man. As a citizen, to love a man his equal -- it is simply not done. A perversion that even the filthiest men do not indulge in. It is asking to be lowered, debased -- to say nothing of what he desires to do with them, more perverted still.

He knows he cannot want this, and as he keeps walking, lost in his thoughts, he almost laughs to see where he has ended up. Even if he couldn't read the sign, he'd know a brothel for sure, as very few buildings have quite that much writing on them. That, and the statue of Priapus.

He stops, stares at the price list, and notes with some amusement that they offer men as well as women, for, well, everything. Pompeii must be more cosmopolitan than he had thought; he can't recall the last time he's seen a brothel advertising men too. Down the list it gets a little more expensive, but nothing he couldn't afford if he did want, say, four nubile virgins at once. Or "virgins," he supposes.

The rest of the building's facade is covered with the usual scribbles -- complaints, recommendations, exhortations not to urinate on it. More recommendations than complaints, which is a point in the place's favour. _Hic ego bene futui_, one says, prominently, and he chuckles a little to see it. Good to know. Bellonus stares at it some more, then shakes his head, wondering at his own thoughts. He can't seriously be considering going to a prostitute, can he?

He's never had to pay for sex. And as an equestrian, he shouldn't ever have to. Even had he never found willing partners among the camp followers -- and there always had been -- slaves are available. Always. His cousin's offered him one, even. Whores are for the poorer classes.

But there is something appealing about the idea to him. They're all slaves at the brothel too, of course, but it would be -- different. Someone anonymous, someone he wouldn't see later in the camp or around the house. Someone he'd never have to see again. His threatening, treacherous desires tell him yes, yes -- maybe now it would be safe to indulge in them. No one would know. He doesn't even know where _he_ is; how could anyone here know him? It is perfect, in that respect.

Very well; he will do it. Once.

Bellonus takes a deep breath and enters. Past the doorkeeper, he is mildly surprised to see an older woman seated at a desk. Her hair is streaked with grey, and she doesn't even look up as Bellonus, to his astonishment, stammers out the words he didn't know he couldn't say.

"I'd like to hire a, a--"

"Prices outside are a suggestion," the woman says, sounding bored, delivering a prepared speech without even looking up from her accounts. "Price depends on acts and particular participants. We also offer a per-hour rate." She still hasn't even bothered to look up. "What'll it be?"

He takes a few sharp, shallow breaths. He can't just say it here, he can't, he can't--

"I want a blow job," he manages, and hates himself for being too cowardly even to admit to his desires. It's not the truth, but, well, it'll get him off, won't it? Besides, the request is probably common enough here that it will draw no attention; it is the sort of thing one goes to prostitutes for, after all.

The woman makes a small hmm noise to herself as she scribbles something on her tablet. "Men or women?"

This one he can admit. "Men, please."

She opens her mouth, looks up at him finally, seeing the trim of his tunic, and quotes a price range three times higher than what was on the sign. Bellonus knows he is paying for discretion and sets down an amount of coins at the high end of that range on the woman's desk. Fourteen asses. Almost a sestertius. He'd better be worth it. And, of course, for that money, none will mention his visit. An equestrian should never come here, and they will not tell.

The woman smiles a mostly-toothless smile, writes something in the ledger, and sweeps the coins into her palm. "Pleasure doing business with you, sir. If you come this way--" she pauses to rise slowly from her chair-- "you can make a selection. Certain boys may require slightly more money if you'd like them."

Still half-believing that he is doing this at all, Bellonus follows her through a curtain into hall, all full of, well, prostitutes, standing at the doors of their cells.

As he is the only customer in this hall, most of the boys -- for they are barely men -- turn, at their doors, to give him their best seductive smiles. They probably get a percentage of the fee. They are beardless youths, all of them, which is exactly the sort of thing he ought to have expected, he thinks. Which is not to say that they are not pretty -- his cock stirs a little in anticipation -- but he feels somehow dissatisfied with the choices.

The woman, sensing his disappointment, nudges his arm. "If none of these boys please you, sir, there is another hallway."

"Perhaps I would like to see that," Bellonus says, then-- "Wait. What about that one?"

There is one more man in the hall, in the far corner, at the farthest possible end. He is hidden in the shadows, seated on the floor at the edge of his cell, and did not even raise his head at their approach. In the dimness of the corner, Bellonus can make out very little about him -- he looks full-grown, unlike most of these boys.

The woman frowns, then smiles. "Him? That's Britannicus." She says the name with a certain amount of fondness. A Celt, then, surely, if they've called him that. "But, sir, truly, there are many more fine boys in the next corridor." Boys they can charge more for, no doubt.

Bellonus feels a vague weakness, an emotion he can't quite place. Something is important. "No," he says, "I'd like to see him."

She shrugs, looking disappointed on behalf of the owners. Britannicus probably does not command high prices. "Very well. Britannicus!" she calls. "On your feet."

The man in the corner rises slowly, leaving his cell, and as he comes toward them Bellonus finally gets a good look at him. He is thin, probably underfed, and his tunic, belted loose, is dingy and threadbare. But somehow he -- he is beautiful. There is no other word for it. His hair, curled like that of a cinaedus should be, is a pleasing auburn colour, and his eyes, bright green, stunning in their intensity, could only belong to a Celt. The man's face is exotic, a combination of features half-delicate and half-rough that intrigues him. They've rouged and painted him to better play the part of the cinaedus, but even makeup cannot cover the broken cheekbone that the man turns toward them, and Bellonus almost winces in sympathy.

They've probably singed and plucked him, of course, to try to make him into an eromenos, or what passes for the beloved youth in the rest of the empire, but the man looks to be almost Bellonus' age; he cannot play this part for much longer. He moves with the exaggerated, showy gestures of the cinaedus, probably trained into him, but there is a true grace under the artifice, a power. They may have beaten him, but they haven't broken him. Bellonus wants this one. Hungers for him, and all the desires that he couldn't say come welling back into him. There's something real there, or could be.

"Why not call him Rufus?" Bellonus whispers discreetly to the woman, still out of earshot of the Celt.

She smiles, half-reminiscent. "He was so dirty when we got him we didn't know he was a redhead, and we had to call him something. He wasn't in any mood to tell us a better name then. It's been five years, so it might as well be his name now."

The man finally comes close enough to see them face to face. Green eyes meet Bellonus' blue ones, and he feels -- something. Recognition? Does he know this man? He cannot possibly. How would he? He's never met him before. Besides, if this Britannicus recognises him, he's doing a good job covering it. Those eyes are cold. The man does not know him and clearly feels nothing for him.

"Yes," Bellonus hears himself saying, to his shock. "I'd like him."

"What is required of me?" Britannicus asks, heavily accented, in the high, musical voice of a cinaedus that Bellonus knows, somehow, is a fake. As he speaks the edge of one chipped tooth gleams, an appealing imperfection.

"This man has requested your mouth," she says, kindly enough, and it is then that the slave deigns to glance at him again, another cold stare concealed under politeness. Bellonus doesn't know what the man thinks of him. Not that it should matter.

Britannicus shrugs an assent and walks off toward his cell. The lady motions, and Bellonus understands that he is to follow, so off they go through the corridor, illustrated with all sorts of lurid scenes. As the man walks in front of him Bellonus admires the view. He is very well-put together, legs elegantly muscled, and Bellonus' cock rises even more at the thought of what lies underneath his tunic.

They come to his small cell, like a cubiculum, and the man motions him to enter. The man's name and price -- much less than Bellonus paid -- is chalked onto the wall outside above a sign; the man flips the sign over to read "_occupata_." There is a bed built into one wall, and the other walls are decorated with more lurid murals. Britannicus pulls the curtain shut and regards him almost with distaste, then crafts a clearly-fake smile for him.

Bellonus wonders what the etiquette is in these situations, but the man does the talking for him.

"You want to fuck me in the mouth?" the man asks, slowly, thickly, in his Celtic-accented voice, using the crudest possible word Bellonus can imagine for the activity. _Me vis irrumare?_ He makes it sound like rape. Perhaps it's the only word he knows for it in Latin.

Numbly, Bellonus nods. Somehow, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, but he doesn't know what to say. This is seeming less and less like a good idea.

"Sitting, standing, or lying on the bed?" the man asks, the next question not any better than the first. Well, he has paid for a prostitute, what did he expect? He didn't pay for the man to act like he loved him.

"Sitting, I suppose," Bellonus says, slowly, in case the man doesn't understand Latin all that well.

Britannicus raises both his eyebrows at him, a look Bellonus would almost call amused. Or annoyed. "Sit, then."

Bellonus backs to the bed, perches on the edge, and waits. He's barely hard at this point, to his shame, when he knows he ought to be enjoying this more.

The man nods, businesslike. Bellonus waits for the man to take off his tunic, but he doesn't even bother -- he just kneels, fully clothed, right there on the floor.

Britannicus pushes his legs apart a little, slides forward between them, and with a bit of difficulty pulls the heavy toga and tunic upward and sideways, out of the way, revealing Bellonus' half-hard cock. He's about to apologise, say something about it being his first time here, when the man shrugs and leans forward anyway.

When the man puts his mouth on him, it all changes -- suddenly Bellonus is as hard as he can ever remember being. The man's mouth is skilled, so skilled, warm and wet, and he groans as he feels the man's hands reach up and caress him as well. It is as if he knows exactly where to touch him, even though he's never touched him before. Bellonus isn't going to last long at all, he knows, as he feels the man's clever tongue lick along his length, which is probably part of the plan -- get him off quickly, get him out of here. He groans again, strokes his fingers through the man's curled hair, not that he needs any more encouragement. He can't help arching his hips forward, but Britannicus doesn't complain, only sucks harder.

He looks down, admiring the view of his cock sliding in and out of the man's mouth, pretending for just a minute that he is there because he wants to be. Britannicus looks up at him, and there's something about his eyes, something he can't quite place, but whatever it is it makes him feel a sudden rush of happiness, a tightening of his chest. Then the man licks a few more times, squeezes tighter, and it's all over -- Bellonus is coming, helplessly, into his warm mouth.

Briskly, Britannicus sits back on his heels, spits into a tin cup next to the bed, then rinses his mouth out with a different cup and spits again. He stands up, brushes his knees off, then starts to move back to the curtain. Bellonus watches, dazed, the afterglow melting away. And here it is again, just business. The man probably hates him.

But still, he feels he has to say something. "I thank you," he says carefully, sincerely, very formally, and for an instant the icy stillness of Britannicus' face melts a little into something almost like happiness. Has no one ever thanked him before? "I am very grateful."

The happiness lasts only an instant, before the man's face changes again, back to coldness. His voice is still accented, a little, but his Latin is better than Bellonus had suspected. "Here's some advice for you, Roman--" he says it like an insult-- "since you're clearly new to this: you don't need to thank whores."

"You did well; I wanted to thank you," Bellonus responds, for he truly did, and the man's face shifts once more, to a cast approaching sadness. Regret. Something within Bellonus twinges in empathy; why should he feel so for a mere prostitute?

"There's no point in it," Britannicus says, flatly. "We do it anyway." He turns away, shoves aside the curtain and leaves.

That went well. Or not.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a daze for Bellonus. He gets directions home somehow, attends dinner with half his mind on the food and the other half on the way Britannicus' eyes looked up at him and stumbles into his cubiculum early for rest.

That night the dreams are violent as usual. He dreams of skirmishing against the Celts -- and he knows exactly why -- hours of sitting and waiting, pouncing on the first motion he sees. The man he kills is thin, redheaded, green eyes rapidly dulling in death, and as he stares at the cooling corpse he can feel the rush of air behind him, someone else poised to attack.

He wakes, yelling, sitting bolt-upright and shoving his arms out to ward off invaders. Felix, who was only trying to wake him, has stepped back and is holding his hand to a newly-forming bruise. Bellonus grimaces an apology.

After that awakening, the rest of the day isn't much better. He reads some in the morning, staying far away from military texts and picking up instead some Herodotus. He wonders if Egypt is really as fantastical as the man describes, then decides not.

In the afternoon he goes to the baths by himself, plays handball against two men whose names he does not learn, and then, in the sequence of rooms, waits a long time in the frigidarium until his skin is chilled. It doesn't help.

He runs his hands over his face. If he is to attend this party of Murena's after all, he needs a shave. He can do this.

"A shave," he says, curtly, at the nearest barber shop, and the old man grins at his appalling stubble. Bellonus manages only a faint smile in return as he hands over the money. He really ought to have brought Felix to handle the money, but he worries that if he does anything -- shameful -- it will somehow be reported back to his cousin. To someone.

The barber motions him to sit, and he does, conscious of crafting his movements just as a normal man would. When the man brings the knife near his face, he feels himself tense, sees blood everywhere. His fingers clench into his palms.

The barber chuckles. "Easy there, sir," he says, and Bellonus feels cool metal touch his cheek.

He prepares for the visions, the terror -- but when he shuts his eyes he sees the face of the Celt from yesterday, Britannicus, smiling at him in a way the actual man never did and probably never would. Something within him uncurls, and he breathes out, pleased but bewildered. What is this magic the man has worked on him? He is only a prostitute. He's only met the man once, and the man probably hates him just for being a Roman. He needs to think normally. He must stop all this madness.

* * *

Bellonus is the ninth and final guest to arrive at Murena's home that night, and every one of the others is a soldier or former soldier. They introduce themselves by their legions as well as their names. Most of the rest have but one to their name, and Bellonus feels a little odd reciting the litany of legions he's joined, following Cerialis across the empire -- VIIII Hispana in Britannia for eight years, XIIII Gemina in Germania Inferior for three years, and then back to Britannia with II Adiutrix for the past three.

He knew Murena from VIIII Hispana, of course, but it somehow happened that two of Murena's old friends from Germania were none other than Annalis and Macula, with whom he was so recently serving in Britannia. Bellonus laughs, glad to see them, as they all are poured cups of wine, and soon the conversation turns, as always, to the glories of the past, their victories in this battle and that.

"So," Decimus Annalis asks Murena, next to him on the couch of the triclinium, "how is it that _you_ know Philippos here? I served with him in Britannia, but you--"

Murena grins that irrepressible grin of his and grabs a piece of fish. "I did as well, only when I did it was his first posting, wasn't it?"

Bellonus pretends to cover his face with the arm he's not propped up on, from the far couch. "I was so young."

"Going to tell us you shamed yourself in your first proper battle?" one of the new men, an older man, Atellus, says, lying next to him. It is an odd remark to make to a near-stranger, but Bellonus decides to answer it after all.

"I will say that," Bellonus says carefully, "if only because my first proper battle was against Boudicca and her Iceni, who sacked Camulodunum."

The man turns his head, eyes widening in shock. "Surely you are jesting? That battle--"

"Ten thousand screaming Celts," says Murena, grim. He was there too, after all. "Iceni and Trinovantes together. And us with a quarter of their number. And they already had the city by the time we got there. It was a slaughter, friend, and I shouldn't blame Philippos for having been afraid."

Atellus whistles in admiration. "I fear my career was not as distinguished."

"That was a loss, not a distinction. And, believe me, there are times I would trade distinction for a lack of it, if it meant not living through that." Bellonus shrugs in a way that he hopes is companionable, trying to shake off the images, and trying to do it in a way that doesn't involve thinking of that Celt yesterday. In his head Britannicus smiles again, and he gives up, giving into it. What is wrong with him?

It turns out later, after another hour or so of discussion, another round of wine, that this Atellus is the very man Murena had meant him to talk to.

"Yes, I have land to sell, not too far out. You have a horse stabled here, I assume?"

Bellonus thinks fondly of his stallion. "Of course. I can ride out and look at your property with you."

The man smiles. "Excellent. And if mine is not to your taste, well, I have friends who are also selling. How shall I find you?"

"I am staying with my cousin, Marcus Cornelius, the cloth merchant, and can be reached there."

"Excellent," Atellus says again, and gestures toward the wine bowl. "More wine?"

It is unseemly to drink too much -- all things in moderation, after all -- but Bellonus accepts cup after cup of the watered Falernian wine, as it dulls some of the past. And the present, which appears to need dulling as well.

* * *

The next morning, he can't remember what he dreamt at all, which may be the only good side of the whole affair. It's been years since he's been quite that drunk. Bellonus shields his eyes from the light, turning back into the mattress, and he spends a few minutes wondering how it is he managed to get home when he can't quite remember the rest of the evening.

Felix opens the curtain and steps to the edge of the bed, removing the bowl that Bellonus seems to have been sick in at some point that night.

"Too much wine, _domine_?"

"Too much," Bellonus agrees, arm over his face. "And somehow not enough." He says things often that he knows Felix cannot know how to respond to, and he hears rustling as the man leaves, returning shortly with his toga and tunic, thankfully clean. At least he didn't disgrace himself that much.

He takes bread and water for breakfast, and more water, and more water, and sits in the atrium glaring at nothing in particular until the pounding in his head subsides enough for him to consider distracting himself from it with some light reading. More Herodotus, perhaps. His cousin is still with his accounts in his office.

His head pounds again, and Bellonus squints his eyes half in pain before realising that the pounding wasn't in his head. Footsteps. Someone else here. A guest. He turns his head and winces at the sudden motion. Probably one of Marcus' clients. He can't do his cousin any credit in this state.

It's Murena.

"Oh," Bellonus says weakly, relieved. "You won't be wanting any cloth from my cousin, then."

Murena shakes his head. "You look wretched, Philippos."

He doesn't have to try too hard to produce a sour expression. "We can't all have your stunning good looks."

Murena laughs and hits him companionably on the shoulder, and he is so miserable that he can't even flinch at that.

"I just wanted to check on you. You were a mess when I walked you home."

Murena... walked him home? What in the world happened last night? "I don't remember that."

"Didn't think you did," the man says, quieter now. "I don't think you remembered _Latin_; you started speaking Greek halfway through, and then something that sounded like one of those barbarian languages."

Bellonus frowns. "I learned a little Celtic in Britannia. I can't imagine why it would have occurred to me to speak it." Except he can imagine it, of course, and an awful thought occurs to him. "Did I say anything... inappropriate?"

"No, no!" Murena assures him, too quickly for it to be true. "Not in front of the guests, anyway. You were very charming with Atellus, who left early enough that you wouldn't have had time to say anything inappropriate anyway."

Bellonus gives brief thanks that the older man had decided to retire early for the night. "So I hope he'll still consider me for his land."

"I think so," Murena says, sounding confident.

He nods in time to the pounding in his head, and then his mind finally catches up with the beginning of the sentence. "What -- what do you mean, 'not in front of the guests?'"

Murena shrugs. "As I was walking you home, you kept telling me about the charms of some Celt you'd met--"

Oh no. He must have gone even whiter, because Murena looks at him in concern. "Hey, friend. It's all right. We all have the slave-boys, occasionally."

So Murena thinks he was with a boy, then. All right. Bellonus exhales in relief. Nothing shameful about that. But Britannicus there is a man, is probably his own age. And Bellonus wants nothing more than to see him again. And that, of course, is inappropriate. That's when someone might start suspecting. He has been so careful; he knows Romans are quick to think a Greek man effeminate as is, and they cannot know, they must not--

He forces a smile. "Oh, is that all I was saying?"

"As much as I could follow." The tension defused, Murena retreats a little. "Next time I'll water the wine more, eh?" All wine is watered at a party, of course, but usually Bellonus can keep his head better than that. "You'll be drinking grape-flavoured water."

"Or you'll serve me the worst, and save the best for your other guests?" Bellonus laughs, knowing it to be a horrible gaffe.

"Or maybe both, eh, Philippos?" Murena says, laughing, walking back toward the entrance. "Perhaps I'll see you at the baths later?"

"Perhaps so," Bellonus agrees, waving a hand and slumping back onto his seat. That was too close.

* * *

That afternoon he brings Felix with him to the forum baths. As before, he edges away from the wrestling circles and the swordsmen and anything that might bring back the sudden memories.

He's borrowed a discus from his cousin. It was never one of his favourite athletic activities, but it's better than the alternatives. He moves to one of the open spots in the palaestra dedicated to this purpose, and throws, noting happily that even with his lack of practice he came nowhere near hitting any of the statues on the far side. It has been known to happen. Felix gives him an approving look and trots out to fetch the discus back for him.

On the third pass, Felix looks concerned as he hands over the discus. "_Domine_," he says, brows furrowed, "there's a man behind you on the walkway. He's been watching you all this time."

Bellonus feels a familiar calm spread over him, the absolute calm he usually only feels in battle. It is good to know that even with his upsetting dreams and visions, he still has a soldier's spirit in him. "Describe him," he says quietly and throws the discus out. This shot goes wild. Damn.

When he returns with the discus Felix lingers while walking, deliberately. Bellonus understands and contrives to look upset. "Well?"

"He's wearing a senator's toga, _domine_," Felix says, hurriedly, as if he's been scolded and is making excuses. "He's quite short, slightly overweight, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and is going bald."

Bellonus hisses through his teeth. It can't be. It can't be Crassus. No, his mind tells him, reasonably, it perfectly well could be Crassus. He was only in the army as part of the cursus honorum, after all, and he made it very clear he was to be a senator and cared nothing for the army, so he could be out of it and have been in the senate for a long time; he's old enough now to have been a quaestor first, and he probably had the money for it anyway even without being a quaestor. And everyone's in Pompeii for the summer. Damn it all.

He contrives to turn, as if preparing for another throw, and looks behind him. Ten years older now, but it is Crassus, no doubt. Crassus has a fatuous half-smile on his face, and he raises his hand in salutation. So, they do recognise each other.

Bellonus forces a smile that's more like a grimace, waves back. Crassus, satisfied, nods to himself and disappears within the baths. Bellonus flings the discus so hard he fears it will break when it lands, then drops his head into his hands.

Felix comes back, panting from the exertion, holding the discus. "You know that senator, _domine_?"

He sighs. "I made an enemy of him ten years ago." And to think he'd almost forgotten.

Bellonus knows poor Felix must be tired, but he keeps throwing the discus until he's sure Crassus is deep enough within the baths that they won't run into each other. He doesn't know what he'd say to the man, and he doesn't particularly wish to find out.

* * *

That night, Crassus, of course, has to figure in his nightmares, as if they weren't horrible enough. Bellonus is young and only an equestrian, so naturally Crassus outranks him. Mercifully, it is the night before a battle in his dream, not the day of one, and they are in Cerialis' tent, all the officers, discussing tactics.

_Crassus points to the map, wants to move a few auxiliaries just so. It is an untenable position, and Bellonus doesn't know if the man is stupid or merely foolhardy, but cannot help giving him a look that suggests this._

_"Sir," Bellonus says, as politely as possible, which for him is always an effort. "They'll die holding that." He thinks of the men he knows in that unit, imagines their corpses on the wet British ground. The man has to know this._

_Crassus shrugs, and Bellonus realises, horrified, that the man just doesn't care. _He_ will be safe behind the lines; this is all a game, played on maps. Nothing real. Caring about the men is beyond him._

Bellonus sits bolt upright in bed, breathing hard in the darkness, and he can't even console himself with the knowledge that it was only a dream, because he remembers it now, waking. He was the one who went to the field, walked among their bodies afterward. Crassus had only glared at him and told him they'd held the position long enough, hadn't they? And he'd have no more complaints from the likes of him. Bellonus knew what he meant, of course -- scion of an old and noble Roman family, Crassus' views about Greeks as officers were all too obvious. And that was only the smallest part of the disagreement.

He leans over, forehead pressed against his drawn-up knees, shaking. Perhaps Pompeii is proving less relaxing than he thought.

* * *

The next day is bad for him -- twitching, jumping at shadows, snapping even at poor Felix. He can't concentrate enough to read. He hopes the baths will relax him, in the afternoon, but even tiring himself to exhaustion in the palaestra first, his mind won't stop. It has to be seeing Crassus again that's done it, he thinks. He really could have done without ever being reminded of the man's existence. And not just because he's an ass, because -- because -- he's just not going to let himself think about Athanasios. No.

And on the way back, without really thinking about it, Bellonus has found that brothel again, and part of him unknots. Is this -- can this really be what he wants again? He could just have had slaves, he knows, but no, he wants that particular one again. Britannicus. Thinking the name makes him relax a little more. It is as if there is magic in it. It's not even really a proper name. This is mad.

He stands in front of the brothel door, reads the new graffiti, and thinks. Except he's not really thinking, because if he were _thinking_ he wouldn't be here, would he?

Well, he tells himself, surely there's no harm in going again. Maybe then it'll get the man out of his head, so that he can move on.

The inside of the brothel is much the same as it was the other day. The doorkeeper glowers at him, and this time the old woman at the desk actually looks up as he approaches.

"What a pleasure to see you again," she says, sounding as if she means it. Bellonus suspects he may have overpaid. "What may we help you with today, sir? There are new boys, and girls too, just arrived from faraway lands, if you're interested--"

"No, thank you," he says, politely. "I wish to see Britannicus again." A thought occurs to him. "If he is free, of course."

"Him?" The woman smiles, a fond, if slightly puzzled, smile. "He is available." The Celt is probably too old to be of interest to most of the men who visit. Shame, with his talent. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather...?"

"No, he will be fine, thank you," Bellonus says, and he reaches to his belt for his purse. He drops two sesterces on the table, over double what he paid last time. The brass glints dully in the light of day, and the owner's eyes widen just a little. "What can I have for that?"

"For that much? For him?" She half-smiles. "You can have Britannicus for whatever you want as long as it doesn't leave him in a condition unfit to serve other clients. No marks, sir. We like him very much," she adds, almost defensively.

They probably all think he's mad. Maybe he is. But as long as word of this doesn't get back to anyone who would know, what is the harm in indulging the madness? Bellonus feels himself smile broadly.

"That will be excellent; thank you."

"Very well," she says. "If you remember the room where you were with him the other day--"

The one with the especially intriguing drawings. He thinks, now, it may have had VIII over the door, in addition to the man's name. "Eight?"

She nods. "If you will wait a few minutes, I will have him sent there." She calls over her shoulder in Oscan, and a slave behind her heads upstairs, to what are presumably the prostitutes' quarters when they are not working.

A few minutes later, the slave returns and beckons at Bellonus to follow, though he could have found the way by himself. More quickly than he expected, he is at the room, and he pushes back the curtain to find Britannicus already there. His heart leaps and pounds alarmingly in his chest at the sight of him.

The Celt's face, at first neutral, changes upon seeing him to a false happiness, and he gestures at him airily, as a cinaedus does. And even so, he is beautiful; the smile, fake as it is, still takes Bellonus' breath away. He is gorgeous, the very image that poets write about, Bellonus thinks, with his curled hair framing his face just so, the sparkle in his eyes. Britannicus moves elegantly as he stands, putting his hands out alluringly. Bellonus imagines those hands on him and smiles.

"It is a pleasure to see you again," the man says, his accented voice high and fluted, in the tones of the cinaedus, and all of it fake. "I am most pleased to perform whatever services you require."

What _does_ he want? That's a good question. He knows what he really wants, of course, but he can't ask, can't possibly ask, even though he's already daring so much just by being here with the man. He shrugs helplessly. "Whatever you would like. What is it you want to do?"

A sudden crack in the mask, as the man regards him with bewilderment, and Bellonus suspects he's trying very hard not to call him an idiot. "Sir," the Celt says after a long pause, "my desire is to serve you."

"You're lying," Bellonus says quietly. He wants some reaction, some sign, _something_. He doesn't even know what he's looking for.

The mask slips a little more, and green eyes glimmer in something like anger. Bellonus watches the man's chest heave under the threadbare tunic.

"My desire right now," the man says, voice rougher, more real, "is to serve you. Anything else I might want is irrelevant." That's probably true enough, Bellonus supposes. He shouldn't push it. The man won't answer.

"Very well," Bellonus says. He has to come up with something to ask for. "As you were so skilled with your mouth the other day..."

Britannicus half-smiles and pats the bed next to him. Bellonus sits, and then lies back onto the straw mattress. Already he is hard, and he becomes harder still as the Celt's practiced hands move over him, pulling his toga and tunic aside. He realises, suddenly, that the tension of the past few days is gone. He needed this. He needs this man; he doesn't know why, but he does.

Determined fingers stroke along the length of his cock, and he groans. "It would be better," he manages, "if you could take your time a little." He hardly wants to come already; it would all be over so soon.

He looks down his body and sees Britannicus, regarding him intently, give a small nod. Then, ever so slowly, the man leans down, and licks one long slow stripe of warmth along him. Bellonus groans and throws his head back into the mattress, arching up into the heat denied him.

It is a slow tease, a dance, the man's mouth on his cock one minute, gone the next. It is agonising and wonderful both, and he raises his head with some effort to see Britannicus looking down at his cock, achingly hard now, with a measure of satisfaction, or so it looks. The look itself almost undoes him.

"You're wonderful," he pants, hardly knowing or caring about the words that come out of his mouth. "So good. _Please_."

Britannicus looks down at him, gives another strange half-smile, and there's something in it, there's got to be. He hasn't even come yet and he feels like he's floating, lighter than air. Maybe this was what the man wanted after all, he tells himself, pretends for a minute that the situation is other than it is.

He smiles back, weakly, and then Britannicus' mouth covers him, no teasing, no taunting. He thrusts deep, harder, and the man does not pull away, only slides his lips down further until Bellonus' cock is surrounded. No one has done this to him before, he thinks in a haze, no one has done anything like it. He thrusts once, twice into the man's mouth, and then he is coming. And for one perfect moment he is happy, the horrors that plague him driven away.

Bellonus' heartbeat thunders in his ears and he tries to remember how to breathe again. "That was -- you're excellent," he manages, and looks over at Britannicus, which is, unfortunately, a mistake.

The man is swallowing still -- clearly, he had no choice -- and the face he is making is far from happy. Resigned, almost. It had all been in Bellonus' mind. Of course he didn't like it. He has no choice in any of it. At all.

"I'm sorry," he pants, and Britannicus' face changes. "You hadn't wanted to after all."

"I told you before," the man says, quietly, his real voice. "I'm a whore. You're buying my services. I do what you want. What I want is irrelevant." A hint of anger.

"What do you want?"

The man shuts his eyes, turns his head away. "It doesn't matter."

"What's your name, then?"

The question is out of Bellonus' mouth before he's even thought to ask it. And it's a stupid question, of course, he thinks as he rises to his feet, still a little shaky. It's not as if he'll give a true answer; why should he?

"My owners," the Celt says carefully, almost icily, eyes open now, glaring, "have chosen to call me Britannicus."

"But you must have had a name before that." He doesn't know why he's pressing; the man won't answer him.

Real anger, then, as the man's face twists, mocking. "Yes, my parents thought, oh, here's a lovely name, we'll name our son after our homeland. In the language of the invaders. As far as anyone in this land is concerned, I have no other name."

This is going all wrong somehow. "I served in Britannia," Bellonus says, hoping to put him at ease. "Twice. It was a beautiful country, or so I found it. In fact, I was only just posted there, at Eboracum, dealing with the uprising from Venutius and his Brigantes."

The man's face twists even more, and whatever facade of pleasantry there was has been shattered. His eyes are cruel, hard, and Britannicus bares his teeth. "And you didn't have enough of raping my people there, eh, Roman? Had to come back and do it here too, did you? Couldn't get enough of fucking us, could you? Found a taste for the Brigantes?"

He's one of the Brigantes? Here? Oh no. No, no, no. Caught off-guard, Bellonus stammers, "It's not -- it's not like that--"

"So I'll suck your cock if I've got to," Britannicus says, dangerously quiet. "Since you're paying enough, aren't you, Roman? And since it matters so desperately to you to know what I _want_, I want to be at home, in Isurium Brigantum, with my friends and family, where I will never have to get on my knees for anyone ever again, but my family is long dead, and thanks to your no doubt excellent prowess as a soldier, there soon won't be any of my friends alive there either. Not that I'll ever be free. So, you see, I can never have what I want. You'll kill us all, sooner or later, damn you." His voice has risen by the end of it, all trace of artifice gone, a flame of pure anger.

He can't form words. "I -- I didn't -- I wouldn't--"

They stare at each other. Britannicus is wild-eyed. His chest heaves, and Bellonus knows, now, that this man hates everything about him, and worse, is right to. It isn't as if his hands are free of blood.

"Report me to my owners," the man says quietly, after a long silence. "Tell them I spoke thus to you. They'll have me beaten for my insolence. I'm sure you'll enjoy that, as that's why you've picked me, isn't it? To know that I suffer? To find another Celt to shame?"

Bellonus looks at him for a long time. "No, it wasn't why. And I don't believe I will tell them." He owes the man that much at least, for being brave enough to speak his mind. And he still isn't sure why he picked him in the first place. "I've hurt enough people."

Britannicus looks at him, bewildered, and this time it is Bellonus who pushes aside the curtain and leaves.

* * *

After barely eating dinner, he lies awake in his cubiculum for hours past darkness that night. Having partaken as little as possible of the wine this night, Bellonus has no wish to know what his dreams will bring him. He's already angered the one man, who, for whatever reason, somehow made any of it better. His heart twists strangely as he thinks of Britannicus. The man shouldn't affect him like this, is the last thing he thinks of as he falls asleep. He knows with an awful certainty what his dream will be about, given the events of the day: that which he avoids.

_He is holding Athanasios' body in his arms and trying so hard not to cry. The light flickers within the tent. The physicians could do nothing for the infection that raged within him, and even now, in death, the man's body is still warm._

_He traces the slight curl of black hair along the man's forehead, his dark Syrian features, runs his fingers along his face, along his lips, over his eyes that will never open again. _Immortal_, his name means, for like the rest of the Syrians, the man had a good Greek name. _Undying_. It isn't true._

_"Athanasios, O Athanasios!" he cries. "Speak to me. Athanasios, I never told you how much I cared. I care too late. Speak to me," he says again, as if through sheer force of will he could revive a dead man as Aesculapius could. But he is only a man, not a god, not the son of a god._

_Athanasios opens his eyes, shot through with blood, and his voice, hellish, like nothing he possessed in life, is that of the shades of the underworld._

_"Philippos, why did you let him kill me? Why did you let him?"_

_The dead man's hands lock on his throat, painfully tight._

_"I couldn't stop him," he rasps. "I didn't know what he would do, Athanasios. Believe me. Forgive me--"_

_But Athanasios' hands grow tighter, and he can feel it, see his vision starting to grey out. He can't breathe. He can't breathe._

_"I was a coward," he forces out, with his last breath. "I could have stopped him. I was afraid to speak up, afraid of what he would do to me."_

_"Then it's you who killed me, Philippos." The fingers, grey and dead on his throat, tighten more--_

Bellonus scrambles upright, fingers tearing at his throat, which is, of course, bare.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Then, even quieter: "I loved you, Athanasios." Words he never spoke while the man was alive, certainly.

It is still the middle of the night, but he sits awake in the dark until dawn, silently. He does not cry. A good Roman man does not.

* * *

In the morning Felix brings him his toga, frowning at the bleary-eyed glare his master gives him. "A bad night, _domine_?"

"They're all bad nights," Bellonus responds, dully.

Felix frowns. "I am sorry to hear that," he says and works in silence for a few minutes, draping Bellonus' toga just so. It is then that Bellonus remembers the day before, and his mood, such as it is, becomes exponentially worse.

"Felix?" Bellonus asks, appalled to hear his voice quavering with fatigue.

"Yes, _domine_?"

"Do you think I'm a good person?" A ridiculous question to be asking one's slave, certainly, but Bellonus has never been one for normality.

"Of course," Felix says. An instant response.

"Why?"

The man frowns again, this time deeply in thought, as if this is a test of some sort. "You are a kind man and a generous one. I am well-fed and well-cared for. You do not beat or ill-use me, and you treat other men's slaves, too, as if they were your own valued possessions. You are not callous, or petty, or cruel. If someone asked me to describe you, _domine_, that's what I'd tell him."

Bellonus scrubs at his face. "What if someone's made up his mind already? That I'm not a good man. Then what?"

Felix looks at him, confused, and shrugs.

Bellonus doesn't know, either.

* * *

A messenger comes that morning, from Atellus, asking if Bellonus would be willing to see his property today, which he gratefully accepts. A ride outside of the city would do him some good, even if he doesn't end up buying it.

He goes to the stables where his stallion, Boukephalos, is stabled. Boukephalos is a big dapple-grey, head nothing like an ox, nothing at all like the jet-black stallion it is said that _ho Alexandros ho Megas_ owned, but Bellonus always felt he would be a poor Greek not naming his horse after the great man's, no matter what the horse looked like.

_Why don't you just call him Hippios? Or Equulus?_ he remembers Athanasios asking the day he got him, the horse barely past colthood, and at that size, certainly deserving of either of those names. He'd laughed, kissed Athanasios, and-- no. He can't think about that, either.

Boukephalos is happy to see him, nickering and nosing his palm for a treat, the greedy thing. Bellonus can't help but smile as he saddles his horse. Horses are so much simpler than people.

He meets Atellus as agreed on the road out of the city. Atellus reins his gelding expertly around, and they head out to his property, chatting of this and that inconsequential thing. The trip is much shorter than Bellonus had thought it would be, as the land is much closer to the city than he'd thought.

It is a fine enough estate, and he smiles pleasantly as Atellus shows him around the empty villa, the farm, and yet -- somehow it is not for him. He could afford it, of course, but it is larger than he pictured. He would be lost in it, and it is closer than he wanted to live to the city. He cannot picture himself retiring here.

Atellus eyes him as they walk back through the land toward their horses. "No, eh?"

Bellonus grimaces. "Is it that obvious?"

The man grins and taps at his own face. "It's in your eyes, friend. This isn't the place you wanted."

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"Oh, not at all!" Atellus says. "An old man like me can do with some good riding now and again. "I'm not offended. And, as I said, I've friends -- maybe you can tell me what you're looking for?"

"Something smaller," Bellonus says, picturing it. "Not such a large place that it would take a huge staff to run. Something more in the countryside. Quieter." Where he could retire, in peace, with a friend nearby -- a pair of green eyes stare at him, in his mind, and he shakes the image off. Madness. Stop thinking about him. He's a stranger who hates him. He doesn't even know his real _name_.

Atellus scratches his chin in thought. "I'll ask around. And if you find anyone else looking, keep me in mind, eh?"

"I will," he promises.

* * *

That night there is another dinner party at Murena's, with the same set of guests. Bellonus resolves to drink less, and Murena grins companionably as he passes the krater. This one tastes more watered, anyway. At least Murena's looking out for him.

Macula, across the room, eyes one of the shapelier slave-girls, reaching out to fondle her. Maybe _his_ wine wasn't watered enough.

Annalis, on the couch lying just in front of Bellonus, laughs as he watches the scene. "Chase after women enough, Titus, and you know what they'll say about you--"

The assembled guests laugh uproariously at Titus Macula. Bellonus doesn't. It's the same thing they'd say about him, if they knew. Unmanly. Effeminate. Consumed by passions. Things a good Roman citizen, a man, an equestrian, should never be. Hastily, he joins in the laughter.

"So, Philippos," Annalis says. "Atellus over there says you weren't interested in his property."

Bellonus inclines his head. It seems word has spread, and why shouldn't it? It isn't a secret. "I don't think it was what I was looking for, Decimus."

"Listen, Philippos, I don't know if you're interested," Annalis says quickly, as if he's waiting for a denial, "but if you haven't committed to retiring, there are a lot of good people who could use you. The new commander of II Adiutrix is in town as well, for the summer. And if you want to come back, there'd probably be a promotion in it."

Another choice. He freezes a little, momentarily, as the thought of the name of the legion even calls up memories of the dead. He can't. He could. He doesn't know.

"I'm not sure yet what my plans are," he says carefully. "But I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

Annalis nods, grins, and reaches out for more wine.

* * *

Bellonus is pleasantly surprised the next morning to find he doesn't remember his dreams. And with no hangover, this is definitely an improvement over the day after the last party.

He is even able to relax enough to enjoy reading the Herodotus his cousin owns, sounding out the words to himself and pausing every so often to chuckle at the bizarre things described therein. It's a good thing the man never visited Britannia, otherwise he'd find himself thinking about -- damn. There it is again. What is he going to do about Britannicus?

Nothing, of course, his mind tells him. He's just a whore, who hates him. There are better men to sleep with, surely, even if it's the perversion of adult men he wants to indulge in. He's not going to change the man's mind about Romans, and certainly not about him specifically.

That would be the rational, reasonable answer. But it doesn't please him. He wants this man to like him, for some mad reason even he doesn't know, and he has set himself an impossible task. And he is no Herakles.

He frowns and rolls up the scroll. Early afternoon, time for the baths. Perhaps he'll see his friends there.

* * *

Unfortunately, it isn't his friends he sees. He is alone -- or rather, friendless -- in the crowded palaestra, when he hears the one voice he would rather never hear again.

"Bellonus!" Crassus calls to him, with false cheer. "I thought I saw you here the other day."

The man's never called him Philippos as he'd asked; one more thing to dislike about him. He turns to see Crassus coming toward him, in his senatorial toga, surrounded by a group of hangers-on that Bellonus doesn't know. He knows, just by that, that the man is exactly as he remembers.

"Senator," he says politely, neutrally. "It is good to see you again." A lie, of course, but he cannot very well insult a senator. Even this man.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Crassus says, smiling.

Bellonus nods. "It has."

"Friends," Crassus says, to his sycophantic followers, "this is Bellonus, a Greek I served with in Britannia in my army days," and they all nod.

Bellonus can see some of their eyes narrowing already. Introducing him as the Greek certainly does little for his status in their eyes. Not a true Roman. Just the sort of backhanded move he'd expect from the man.

"Say, Bellonus," the man says, in a tone that indicates an order more than a request, "how about some sparring?" He indicates, with a jerk of his head, the men and their wooden swords, over in the corner -- an activity Bellonus has scrupulously avoided thus far at the baths. The man's coterie murmurs approvingly, and Bellonus remembers now that Crassus has always fancied himself a great swordsman. Probably wants to show off for his onlookers, and neatly put him down, all in one.

"Your request does me honour," Bellonus says. He knows it was meant as an order, but maybe, just maybe, he can decline. He feels his muscles beginning to tense, ready for battle. "But I fear, senator, that I would not be a good opponent."

"Come now," one of the onlookers says. "Do you fear you would lose? How unsporting of you to refuse the senator's challenge!"

Just as an unmanly Greek would, he supposes. He has to accept now. But he doesn't fear he will lose. In fact, he fears he will win. Crassus may fancy himself a swordsman, but Bellonus is still a honed blade himself, taut with tension, ready to fight. Ready to kill. He does not know what he will do with a sword in his hand, even a practice one. And Crassus, still an idiot, clearly has no idea of any of it, and has left him no honourable way of refusing.

"Very well," Bellonus says. "If you insist." _Please, no. Please, let this go well_.

They remove their togas -- one of Crassus' slaves takes his for him -- and move to the practice area, clad only in tunics. The area clears to make room for them. He is aware of a small crowd gathering -- not just Crassus' followers, but others who want to see the spectacle, want to see the senator show his prowess with a blade.

He has to keep control of himself, Bellonus begins to tell himself, already panicking. He has to put up a decent performance and then lose, let the man show off. He has to stay cool.

Crassus picks up a practice sword. A wooden sword is pressed into Bellonus' hand, and Bellonus closes his fingers tightly on the grip. Stay cool, stay calm, stay controlled. He is hanging onto sanity, just barely.

They circle each other. Crassus darts in, feints, and suddenly something within Bellonus' mind breaks. Reality shatters. He is in a battle. This is the enemy. He has to fight. He is ruthless, efficient, as trained as ever. A heavy blow to the wrist easily makes the invader's hand fly open, sword falling from his nerveless grip. Good.

He presses his advantage, rushing, shoving the man, who turns and falls badly, face in the dirt. This one will be easy to kill. He kneels, shoving his knee into his opponent's back, grabbing him by the hair, yanking his head back, pressing the blade against the exposed throat--

"What are you doing, idiot?" a voice yells. A stranger's voice. He doesn't recognise it. Where--

The palaestra. He's in the palaestra, and he has Crassus, great and noble senator, pinned to the ground in some grotesque parody of a tauroctony. All he needs is a Phrygian cap to complete the scene.

_No_. His mind, his broken soldier's mind has betrayed him. He drops the practice sword into the dirt and stands up, shaking, unsteady. What can he say? He is mad? He didn't mean to? The hangers-on titter to themselves. He's made their senator look bad, all right.

Crassus brushes himself off and glares at him, anger worse than anything he's ever seen. "You--" the man splutters, purpling. "How dare you! You are even more wretched than I remember! I won't forget this, Greek!"

Crassus retreats as quickly as he came, into the baths, shamed now among his followers. This is precisely what Bellonus should not have done. All the onlookers have left; the last slave flings his toga back at him, and he clutches it, white-knuckled.

Pale, sweating, shaking, Bellonus drops to his knees and vomits into the dust of the practice ground.

He had better go back to the army, all right; there's no place for this as a civilian. He had already made an enemy of the man before; what will Crassus do _now_ to him?

* * *

Bellonus spends the evening in almost a state of panic, has horrible, blood-filled dreams in the night, and in the morning, after breakfast, screams at Felix for something that wasn't his fault.

Felix cringes as if he thinks now that Bellonus will surely beat him, and that, for some reason, snaps him out just enough.

"Felix!" he says, appalled by his own behaviour. "I'm sorry; I am not myself." He drops his head in his hands. And the one man who made any of it feel better is gone, or might as well be; he's gone as far as he's concerned. He can't do this.

Felix is looking at him with concern.

It is at that moment that Annalis walks in, followed shortly by Macula. Bellonus looks up, and covers his face with his hands again. He knows what this must mean.

"Is it the talk of the whole city already?"

"Not the _whole_ city," Annalis says. Oh, that's encouraging. "It'll probably spread more at the baths today as well."

He looks up to see Macula nudge Annalis heavily. "He can't do anything to you, Philippos."

The words are comforting, but he can't quite believe them. "What?"

"What could he do?" Macula clarifies. "If you come back to the army, no one cares whether you've made an enemy of the man; you haven't _done_ anything, really, so how could he hurt your career? You have such a fine reputation, and you know it. And even the stupidest commander won't hold it against you because you embarrassed a senator."

"And if you retire," Annalis says, "well, then there's really nothing he can do to you then, if you've no career. We just wanted to tell you that."

They have good points, both of them, and Bellonus half-smiles in relief at his friends. "Thank you. I'll see you later, I suppose."

After the men leave, Felix stares at him in consternation. "_Domine_, if I may ask, what did you do yesterday?"

"You remember that senator watching me at the baths a few days ago?"

Felix nods. "The one you say you made an enemy of?"

"Yes, well, yesterday he challenged me to practice sparring and in front of all his friends I nearly managed to slit his throat with a wooden sword."

Felix frowns, considering. "That was probably unwise, _domine_."

Bellonus sighs and covers his face with his hands again, seeing blood even with his eyes closed. "Don't I know it."

* * *

At the baths that afternoon -- he carefully goes so early that he knows Crassus will not be there -- he meets Murena in the palaestra.

"I won't challenge you to swordplay," Murena says, laughing, and Bellonus sighs.

"No, you'd better not," he says, and the man stops laughing.

"Handball, then?"

He works up a good sweat in the exercise, lost in the mindless return of the ball, and he can almost forget what's happened. It almost makes it go away. But, his mind insists, not like being with--

He frowns, and Murena looks over at his face and misses the return.

"Well, that was probably enough of that," the man says, jovially, in a tone that suggests he's trying hard not to upset him, and together they proceed into the apodyterium.

"So," Murena asks, when they are comfortable in the tepidarium. "Why did you--?"

"I don't _know_," Bellonus says, angrily, helplessly. "I just -- Crassus had a sword. It's as if I'm in a battle all the time, and I couldn't control myself. I dream every night about battles, and sometimes in the streets I freeze and am lost in one."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," Murena says, and Bellonus starts in surprise. "That happens to soldiers all the time. Few want to talk about it, of course."

He is still startled. "It does?"

A light grin. "Philippos, why do you think _I_ left the army?"

That piece of knowledge startles him into silence until they reach the caldarium.

Murena tries again. "What I meant to ask was, why have you and the dear senator always been at odds with each other? I've seen it, but I've never known--"

He can't tell him about Athanasios. He can't. "It is a long tale, Quintus," he says, "but the short of it is that he was only in the army to bide time in his cursus honorum and did not care about the welfare of the men, and he took objection to the fact that I did, and that I was Greek. And from there, it is as you see it."

There, that is true enough. And even about Athanasios, in a way.

Murena moves as if to clap him companionably again, then thinks better of it, and Bellonus is profoundly, pathetically grateful. "That is poor luck, Philippos."

"It is, indeed," Bellonus agrees.

"Say," he says, "what helped with me, if you don't mind the advice, was trying to relax."

Bellonus has to grin at that. "Why do you think I came to Pompeii?"

"No," Murena says, "I mean _truly_ relax. Engage yourself in pursuits. All that Pompeii has to offer." Somehow the phrase makes him think of Britannicus, and he winces. Murena, thankfully, takes it for something else. "No, I wouldn't recommend the arena for you, friend, but how about a play?"

"A play?" Murena's right; the thought never would have occurred to him.

Murena nods. "In three days there is a troupe coming to town, putting on _Curculio_, and some other pantomimes and comedies, but they seem to be proudest of that. Have you not heard the herald crying it? Or read the notice in the forum?"

"No, and I've never seen it," Bellonus says. He has the vague notion it's a comedy. "Is it good?"

Murena shrugs. "I have never, either. But I hear it is good, and quite funny. It's by Plautus, and his were always good. We could all go together?"

It sounds excellent, but a crowd of people at the theatre? All day? Not for him. He could have another one of his fits. Despite himself, Bellonus feels himself nodding. "I would like that."

A grin from Murena. "Most excellent."

They move, then, to the slaves with their strigils, and Bellonus begins to feel a little better as the slave works the oil into him, then scrapes it off. If he can't have -- if he can't have Britannicus, at least he will have the company of his friends.

* * *

He manages to relax enough at dinner to enjoy himself, or at least he would if his cousin were not so staid. Oh, well, it is no matter.

That night he doesn't quite remember his dream, even better, but he wakes in the morning with the vague impression of firelight, cool night air, and a warm body against his. Perhaps he would have liked to have remembered that one.

He smiles pleasantly at Felix, trying as hard as he can to be normal, and Felix looks pleased with this. "I am glad you are in higher spirits, _domine_," Felix says as he helps him wrap his toga.

"I am as well," Bellonus says. "I think today I would wish to go to the barber--" he is getting a little scruffy again -- "and thence to the forum, if you would care to join me?"

"Of course, _domine_," Felix says.

At the barber's, Felix handles the money, as is proper for a slave, and Bellonus breathes deeply as the man brings a blade to his face. It is close -- there is one frozen moment at the beginning where the light touches the blade just so, and he worries he will have a fit of madness -- but he breathes again, pictures something calming, and it passes. He tells himself he doesn't know what he was picturing. It certainly wasn't anyone's face.

They go together to the crowded forum, Felix trailing behind him, looking speculatively at all the sellers hawking their wares. "What was it you wanted here, _domine_?"

Bellonus smiles a little to himself and makes a beeline for the food-sellers. "Honey cakes. And don't tell me it's not a proper meal." He's always loved honey cakes more than is strictly good for him, although lately, of course, he hasn't felt like eating them.

Felix looks relieved to see signs of his appetite. "I wouldn't dream of it, _domine_."

Felix hands over the money, and Bellonus buys two honey cakes. He hands one to Felix and bites into his. It is just as delicious as he remembered, and he is glad he felt like doing this after all.

"Thank you, _domine_," Felix says, mouth full of honey cake.

"Mmph," Bellonus manages, taking another bite, stepping backwards away from the vendor. Which turns out to be a mistake.

He bumps into someone behind him in the crowd, and the panic flares up again -- an attack, his mind tells him -- as he turns, falls, shoves, pinning the unlucky person to the ground.

A few instants of terror, and he's come back to himself. Beneath him is a frightened-looking man in a tunic, who, it appears, had been carrying quite an elegant new stola. No longer elegant, it has fallen onto the ground, its whiteness now covered in dust and grime. And, of course, Bellonus' honey cake is smashed into it. That will hardly come out. He's ruined it. And from the looks of it, it was expensive, too. Furthermore, he seems to have gathered a crowd. It is, after all, unusual to tackle someone in the forum. And just when he thought he was getting better.

"I'm terribly sorry," Bellonus says, hastily, ashamed. "I bumped into you, and knocked you down, and now I've ruined your wife's stola. Allow me to pay you its cost," he says, motioning Felix forward. "Again, I apologise."

The man looks even more terrified, eyes downcast. "It isn't me you need to apologise to. My master will be so angry with me that I've ruined this present for his wife; it is all my fault for being so clumsy." His voice is accented, something vaguely familiar.

He's a slave? Well, it is often hard to tell. Although, come to think of it, his hair and eyes are awfully light for a Roman, and his skin pale too -- he could be from one of the provinces. Of course, that's what they say about Bellonus too, so he usually tries not to assume anything.

The onlookers around them part as a huge man, face already reddening in rage, stomps toward them. "Clemens!"

The slave cowers. "Yes, _domine_?"

The man takes in the scene. "Clumsy oaf of a Celt! You've ruined the stola!"

"I tripped," Clemens babbles, which is only half-true. He falls to the man's feet, grovelling. "_Domine_, please, it's not my fault, I was bumped into--"

"It's true," Bellonus says, suddenly, trying to stop this -- the rest of the crowd certainly isn't -- and the man barely deigns to glance at him.

"Clemens here is lazy and a liar," the man says. "I wouldn't believe anything he says, if I were you. He deserves to be beaten. Clemens!" he snaps at the cowering man. "Take off your tunic!"

He reaches for a heavy stick -- the man's going to beat him here, in public? In the forum? -- and as poor Clemens slips his tunic over his head Bellonus can see the man's back is covered with a layer of multicoloured bruises in various stages of healing, bruise on top of bruise. No.

Bellonus steps forward, grabs the owner's upraised arm. "I bumped into your slave. The whole crowd will witness it. Do not beat him unfairly, I beg you. It is in no way his fault. I will pay for the cost of the stola."

A voice, a familiar voice he can't quite place, calls out from behind him, but he daren't turn now. "It's true; I saw it."

The man looks at him, first in anger, then in dawning comprehension as he takes in the stripe of Bellonus' clothing. "I -- very well," he says, and lowers his arm as Bellonus releases it. "Clemens!" he calls. "Put your tunic back on."

Felix presses money into his palm, and he hands the coins over to the man. Probably more than the stola cost, to judge by the unflattering avaricious gleam in the man's eyes, but he doesn't care.

"Here you go, and I am very sorry to have caused you this trouble."

The man nods, curtly, and turns, probably heading back to the clothing shop to replace it. "Clemens!"

Clemens lingers, meeting Bellonus' eyes in unfeigned pure gratitude. "Thank you so much for saving me. You didn't need to speak up for me. Thank you."

"It was the truth," Bellonus says, "and I hate to see a man unfairly hurt."

"Clemens!" comes the man's roar again, from farther away, and Clemens scurries to follow.

"Wait." Bellonus presses a sestertius into the slave's palm. "Keep this one for yourself, eh, for the trouble I've caused you." It is much more than anyone would give a strange slave just for this, but somehow it is still not enough.

The man looks as if he's about to cry. "Thank you," he murmurs, again, and disappears.

The crowd of onlookers melts away quickly, back to their daily tasks now that the excitement is over, and as Bellonus turns he sees a familiar face, a shock of reddish curls, brilliant green eyes -- he would stand out anywhere. Britannicus has seen the whole thing. Bellonus feels his heart start to pound.

Britannicus' eyes widen, and as he sees Bellonus is watching him, his face shutters, unreadable, and he mouths across the crowded forum words Bellonus can't quite make out, but wishes he could. Before Bellonus can run to him, Britannicus gives a crooked half-smile and disappears into the crowd.

It was Britannicus who called out to support him, he realises suddenly. Bellonus' heart leaps. Perhaps it isn't too late after all. Perhaps trust can be earned.

* * *

The only thing that stops him from dismissing Felix and heading to the brothel after the baths is that he knows that if he's seen Britannicus in the forum, he must have a free day or half-day today and will surely be nowhere to be found. Tomorrow, then.

The thought of seeing the man again makes him ridiculously happy, and he's stopped asking himself why this should be so, when he's only ever met the man twice. Why should he care what a prostitute thinks of him? But somehow, he does.

Dinner with Marcus Cornelius is a strange affair. He cannot stop from smiling the whole time, and his cousin looks suspicious at first, but then relaxes.

"Ah," Marcus says, with a knowing grin. "You must have been enjoying the charms of Melissa, eh? Is she not wonderful?"

He grins and tries to dissemble. "Not her, cousin, but I have found other companionship."

Marcus nods. "Well, as I said, all my slaves are yours for the using."

"And as I said, you are quite generous." He likes his cousin -- the only member of the family who can at least stand him, so that's saying something -- though he certainly has no intention of letting his... proclivities... be known.

"You've found Pompeii agreeable, then, Philippos?"

Bellonus nods, helping himself to more food. "Some of my army companions and I are going to see the day of theatre, the day after tomorrow. I've been thinking about settling here, in the countryside, if I decide to retire early."

Marcus laughs, clearly thinking he's making a joke of it -- him, retire? "Well, cousin, I recommend it. It is a fine place to live."

* * *

His dreams are mercifully absent, and Bellonus wakes to find that the next morning he is smiling. He can't remember the last time he woke up smiling.

After breakfast, he shrugs off Felix's company to take the now-familiar path to the brothel. He hopes it's open.

It is, and the woman hardly looks surprised when he pays for another hour with Britannicus. She asks no questions about what he might want to do, this time; she merely takes the money. "I'm glad to see you're fond of him, sir; he is not so popular with the clients."

"I like him," Bellonus says, and it's true enough.

The woman smiles back at him. Was he smiling? "He's well-liked here," she says, with a sort of motherly possessiveness. He can imagine the man being charming; the allure he has as a cinaedus must be building on something real.

"If you're going to send him to the same room as before," Bellonus offers, "I can go myself and wait there. It'll save your slave the trouble of fetching me back."

The woman smiles an assent, and calls out to a slave -- in Latin this time, thankfully -- to have Britannicus sent to his own room.

"Thank you," he says, politely, making his way to the room.

He sits on the bed and doesn't have long to wait until the curtain is pulled back and the now-familiar Celt walks in. He is acting as a cinaedus does, of course, sashaying this way and that, calling out, "What may I do for you today?" in high musical tones. Even so false, he is still beautiful.

Then Britannicus looks up, sees Bellonus waiting, and most of the colour drains from his face.

"I came to talk," Bellonus offers, and sadly, that's actually true. More than anything, he wanted to see the man again.

There is a real smile on Britannicus' face, a flash of one. "You paid for an _hour_ with me to _talk_?" he asks, incredulous, half-suggesting Bellonus is insane for having done it. "After I finished up last time by telling you that you were here to rape me and all my people. You came back. And paid. To _talk_."

Bellonus nods, briskly, half-smiling. This must be what madness feels like. "Yes."

"I--" The Celt stops, starts again. "If we're here to talk, then. I owe you an apology. I saw you in the forum the other day. You're not the man I thought you were, Roman," and this time when he says it it almost doesn't sound insulting.

Bellonus can feel himself smiling. "I'm rarely the man I'm thought to be. Also, I'm not Roman."

Britannicus gestures in confusion at his toga. "I thought only native Romans rose that high."

He's still smiling. "Not exactly." He pats the bed next to him. "Sit."

Bewildered, the Celt sits. "Then who _are_ you?"

A good question. "Gaius Cornelius Bellonus," he says, then adds, "_ho kai Philippos_."

Britannicus blinks a few times in surprise. "You're Greek."

"_Nai_." He grins and waits for the usual question, and is surprised when it doesn't come.

"You're from Greece?" He's hardly ever been asked that one.

Bellonus shakes his head. "Neapolis. My family are equestrians; we've been citizens for generations longer than anyone there, thanks to a Scipio a long time ago. And so I joined the army as an officer, which is how I eventually became a narrow-striped tribune," he gestures at the clothing, "as you see me. So I know a little of how it is to be here in the empire and not be Roman."

Britannicus draws his knees up to his chest, sitting on the bed. He has beautiful long legs. Bellonus swallows and tries to keep his mind on the conversation.

"So how is it to be Greek and in the army?" the man asks, as if he's honestly curious.

Bellonus shrugs. "Complicated. On the one hand, they know Alexander Magnus conquered the world. On the other, I'm an effeminate unmanly Easterner. And so I have to try to be -- Roman. I know it's nothing like what they think of your people, of course."

A rueful smile, showing that cracked tooth. "I thought you shared their opinion of me."

"Never," Bellonus says, fervently. "I served twice among the Brigantes, which is what I was trying to tell you. The first, when I entered the army, at sixteen, when Cartimandua was still queen -- I was there for almost two years, peacefully, on a trading mission. I lived among your people. And I suppose I picked you because you remind me of that time, when I was happy there. I learned some of your language, even." _And I picked you because you make the madness go away_, he thinks but does not say.

The man looks joyous, and says something Bellonus can barely follow, though he picks out the word "understand" in the last sentence.

"I understand you," he says back, in Celtic, smiling. He can almost piece together the rest of the sentence he wants, and tries it anyway. "And you don't have to tell me your name."

"I haven't spoken my language to any but another slave in five years," the man says, dropping back to Latin, with a wondrous, glorious expression on his face. Bellonus is seized with the desire to hold him -- to _kiss_ him, even, but he knows that would not be permitted, and restrains himself. "Thank you."

Bellonus only smiles at him, and the man smiles back, a real smile, radiant, transforming.

"Philippos," the man says, thoughtfully, testing out the name, giving it a Greek accent rather than a Latin one.

"You can call me it," Bellonus says. _Please_, his mind says. _Please call me it. I want you to_. But he can't very well say any of that, and yet the man seems to divine his wishes anyway.

"Well, Philippos," Britannicus says, and he's smiling again now, "you've paid for me for an hour; is there something else you want to do?"

His cock stirs, hopefully, at the idea. "I paid to talk to you. I can do without," he says firmly.

Britannicus leans over, slides his hand firmly into Bellonus' lap, and Bellonus groans and arches into the touch. "That's what I thought," he says. "You don't have to do without. You were kind, and you've paid anyway, and I'm offering."

He looks into Britannicus' eyes, and the man really is sincere. He shouldn't -- he shouldn't give into it. He was here to be noble, not commanded by base emotions. It doesn't make him a good Roman. Or a good Greek, for that matter.

The man's grin turns knowing. "Would you like my arse?"

Bellonus mouths a few broken syllables. So much for not surrendering to lust. He suspects Britannicus is happy to have reduced him to this.

Britannicus pulls off his tunic and helps get Bellonus out of his toga and tunic, a slightly more complicated ordeal. They stand in the small room, staring at each other. And Britannicus is just as gorgeous as he thought he'd be -- thin, but strongly-built for all that, all golden skin and muscle. His hair looks redder, even, against all that skin, and his eyes greener. They've singed and plucked all the hair off his body, of course, as he'd suspected. He wishes they hadn't, but, well, no one caters to that perversion.

"You're -- beautiful," he manages, an inadequate word to describe it, but the best he has. He's getting harder just looking at him. But Britannicus isn't, and he gestures at him in confusion. "Aren't you...?"

Britannicus looks down at himself, flaccid, and shrugs. "I don't, anymore. Haven't had an erection in years. The sort of clients we get just want the use of my mouth, or my arse, so it hardly matters for business, most of the time. They charge a little less for me, to compensate for it, and I make up for it by being -- skilled. It's nothing personal," he says, hastily. "Believe me, I would if I could."

He probably doesn't even fancy men, then, Bellonus thinks. The thought, which somehow never occurred to him before, should bother him, but then Britannicus kneels on the bed, arse in the air, and he thinks he might come just from looking at him. So beautiful.

Britannicus seems to be regarding his state with some amusement. "There's a pot of oil down there. You don't need to loosen me up first; I do this every day, remember?"

All right. He grabs the oil with shaking fingers, slicks himself up, and climbs on the narrow bed behind him. Slippery hands on his hips, he pushes in, and _oh_ \-- it's wonderful, so tight. He groans and thrusts once.

If he hadn't been listening for a response, he might not have heard the sound Britannicus made, the quietest of whimpers. He realises that all of the muscles in the man's back are taut. Something is wrong. He's hurting him. He pulls out, and Britannicus gives another hiss.

Britannicus turns to look at him, and his face is grey with pain. "You stopped."

"I'm _hurting_ you," Bellonus says, and barely stops himself from tacking on an insult. How could he-- "Why didn't you say?"

Britannicus shrugs. "It hurts every time. I can make it quick enough that it'll be done sooner. If anyone notices, he doesn't care."

And the man was just going to let him do this? "It doesn't have to hurt," he offers. "You've tried fingers first, I assume."

"Fingers hurt less," Britannicus says, "or sometimes not at all, but it doesn't make a difference later."

A thought occurs to him. "How about only fingers?"

The man looks as him as if he is mentally deficient. "No one pays to put just their _fingers_ in a whore's arse, Philippos."

"I will," he says. "Just tell me if it hurts and I'll stop."

"You're a madman," Britannicus says, but rolls back over, pushes up onto his hands and knees.

Bellonus slicks up his fingers until they're practically dripping with oil. With his free hand he strokes along the man's back, his buttocks, in one smooth line, until Britannicus makes a noise that sounds much happier, a pleased, relaxed exhalation. Good.

Still keeping one hand stroking his back, Bellonus probes with his oiled finger, gently, and -- "You're scarred," he says, feeling rough tissue under his fingertips. It probably doesn't stretch enough to make it at all pleasant, never mind the friction against the scar. "No wonder it hurts. And you do this every day?"

Britannicus' voice is cutting, acidic. "I don't have much of a choice about it. If you'd like to complain, you can tell it to the guards who fucked me every night before I was sold to the slave-dealer."

And Bellonus thinks his life has been bad, sometimes. His nightmares have nothing on this man's daily existence. "Does it hurt if I just brush like so?" He slides one finger along the opening, and Britannicus wriggles in something that might be pleasure.

"No," comes the voice, sounding amazed. "It doesn't hurt. Keep -- please keep doing that. If it would please you."

Bellonus smiles. "It pleases me." So he slides one finger gently, back and forth. The noises Britannicus makes under him are real, and wonderful, and startled, like someone who's forgotten what pleasure is. This is not fake. It is arousing, to say the least, but to think Britannicus has forgotten how to feel this way is a sad thought. He should feel like this every day.

"You could," Britannicus pants, "put a finger in." He groans, and Bellonus' cock twitches in response.

He slides a finger in slowly, ever so gently, and Britannicus only whimpers and writhes. "Good?"

"Good," the Celt breathes out, barely a whisper.

Bellonus pushes his finger deeper, searching, brushing up against -- _there_.

Britannicus groans, louder this time, and says something in Celtic he can't make out. "No one's done that to me in years," the man says in Latin now, rapid, practically babbling. "It's never felt like that with a man since before--"

Before he was a slave, probably. So he did sleep with men of his own accord. Something about this makes Bellonus happy. He continues the slow slide of his finger. "Surely the men you're with have an easier time doing this with their cocks."

"Hurts too much then for anything to feel good," Britannicus says, panting. "Not like this. I -- I thank you. So much, Philippos."

"Is that enough for now, then?" _Say my name again_, a small part of him demands.

Britannicus nods and he gingerly pulls his finger out. As the man sits up Bellonus looks down at him, amazed that he's still not even hard. Maybe he did something wrong after all?

"No, no, it's all right," Britannicus assures him, seeing his face. "You-- I'll never forget it, believe me. I just -- I can't anymore. Not for anyone, not even myself. I'm sorry." He looks over to Bellonus' achingly hard cock and grins. "You can, though."

"I certainly can," Bellonus says, colouring, ashamed at the evidence of his lust when this man has none.

Britannicus smiles. "You flatter me. Here," he says, laughing, standing up, back against the wall, "we can do as Greeks do, eh?" Well, why not? He's never actually tried it like this, though he's seen it in drawings, of course.

"And a lovely eromenos you make," Bellonus says, moving to cover him, sliding his cock between Britannicus' thighs, which lock tight around him. "Even if you are -- oh! -- a little on the old side for that role."

"Me? Never!" Britannicus laughs, thrusts his hips forward, squeezes his thighs still tighter. "I am but a beardless youth."

Bellonus chuckles. "Liar."

"Yes, well. That's what I'm sold as." Britannicus laughs and tries a twist of his hips, the friction against Bellonus' cock so delicious that he can hardly stay upright.

Bellonus staggers, and feels the man's arms go around him, holding him. He has to stretch forward to rest his chin on Britannicus' shoulder, the pose he is supposed to take, which is difficult as they're more or less the same height and he has bent himself already to fit. Some erastes he is.

"It's good," he gasps in the man's ear, rocking forward. "So good. And I'm so glad you're -- mmm -- a man grown. It's -- you're exactly what I wanted." He ought not to have said that, ought not to have admitted to even the smallest part of his perversion, but, oh--

Britannicus' thighs grasp him tighter still, almost, almost, and Bellonus slides, thrusts a few more times, yes, please, just like that, and comes between the other man's thighs. He can barely keep his balance and ends up clinging to Britannicus, cheek pressed against his shoulder, gasping.

They fall back onto the bed, undignified, and Britannicus grins at him, beautiful, face flushed, even though he wasn't the one getting off here. Bellonus looks over at him, worried. He should have pretended he only wanted him to play the youth, the beloved -- he shouldn't let himself say these things --

The man seems to sense his worry. "Among my people," Britannicus says, "it is not shameful to desire a man your own age." He runs his fingers lightly along Bellonus' sweat-dampened hair, petting it. "I find no shame in this. Although now, I fear, our hour is up."

"Would you like me to return another time?" Bellonus asks, hesitant. What if he says no? He is still, after all, Roman enough, and the man may trust him more now, but that's hardly proof of anything.

"I -- yes."

There is a little bit of fear in the man's eyes, as if by admitting it he's given Bellonus power over him. They are hardly friends, only strangers growing less strange.

Bellonus' heart feels gloriously light. "I shall, then."

They collect and don their discarded tunics, Britannicus helps him into his toga, and then they stand at the curtain, staring goodbyes at each other. Bellonus doesn't know what to say.

"Be well, Britannicus," he says, for lack of anything better.

"Be well, Philippos." Britannicus says. There's a long pause, and then he leans forward, quickly.

His breath against Bellonus' ear is warm, like a kiss.

"My name," he whispers, "is Deomiorix."

And then, just like that, Britannicus -- Deomiorix -- is gone.

* * *

Bellonus floats in a daze through the rest of the day. He told him his _name_. Deomiorix. Sounds like a good Celtic name to him, of course. It doesn't sound familiar, though. It's not likely he ever met the man, then, he thinks as he sits in the baths, even if he has been to Isurium Brigantum, the times they, as an envoy, met the queen. It was a long time ago.

He is distracted all the way through dinner. Deomiorix. He knows, somehow, that this is a gift, an extended hand, a show of trust, even a tentative one. Deomiorix must not have much else to give of himself, but he gave him his name.

He falls asleep smiling.


	2. Anguis in herba

The next day, he meets Murena, Macula, Annalis, and a few men Bellonus vaguely remembers from the party. It is a long walk to the far side of town, but he's brought Felix with him too, figuring that the man might enjoy the plays. Besides, Felix can carry his cushion. It is early, but he wants good seats. Everyone in the city wants to see the plays, of course; it is practically a festival.

Bellonus is surprised to see all of them. "Quintus," he calls to Murena, "I can't believe you talked this lot into a play. Don't you know they only care for the games of the arena? If there's no blood, they're not interested!"

Murena laughs, and Annalis glowers. "I have taste," Annalis says, grumpily.

Macula nudges Annalis with an elbow. "Not much. I told him there was a death in it," he confides to the rest of the group, and that makes Murena laugh harder.

"_Curculio_ is comedy all the way through," says one of the other men, clearly the only man who's seen it before. "But, don't worry, it's short. And no death."

Annalis grimaces and Bellonus finds himself smiling. Murena was right; it is good to relax.

They shuffle into the crowded round theatre and take seats, and Bellonus leans forward with anticipation, as _Curculio_ is the first play of the day.

The actors walk out in their masks and robes -- he can tell, of course, here is the courtesan, the pimp, the heroic youth, the clever slave. No braggart soldier in this one. The great thing about plays is that everyone knows what is to happen, even when they have never seen it before.

He watches as the plot unfolds, set of course in Greece. The young man, Phaedromus, here, is in love with a courtesan, Planesium, and cannot obtain her freedom. Somehow this makes him think -- but no, it is only a play.

"Clasp me, embrace me then," says Planesium, and the lovers fall into each others' arms. The actor, voice pitched high, does a good job playing a hetaera; one might almost think he were a woman.

"This, too, is a reason for which I could wish to live; because your master restrains you, in secret do I court you," vows Phaedromus.

"Restrain me?" Planesium asks. "He neither can restrain me, nor will he restrain me, unless death should separate my soul from you."

This shouldn't move Bellonus, but yet it does. He ignores the clever slave making funny asides for the audience, and something within him twinges as the courtesan begs Phaedromus to buy her.

"If you love me," she begs, "purchase my freedom; don't make any haggling. Take care to prevail with your offer."

Bellonus wishes -- no, that is madness. Even if Deomiorix has told him his name, it is an entirely different thing from wishing to be bought. As it is in the play, the man would have to love him, and does not.

The audience laughs as Curculio, the Parasite, comes on, and everyone knows how this is supposed to go. Curculio is sent to borrow money for Phaedromus, fails, and meets an officer, a captain -- here he is, standing bold and tall in his mask and coloured robe. But, look, here at a dinner party, the captain says he is buying Planesium for himself, though he has not met her, and it remains only to send a letter signed with his signet to the banker. A contract that is void, of course, money returned, if it is discovered she is freeborn. Everyone knows this plot.

The audience laughs uproariously as Curculio steals the signet from the now-drunk captain, forges a letter to the banker, and takes possession of Planesium, bringing her back to her lover. The captain arrives shortly thereafter, and what's this? Everyone knows what is to happen.

Why, Planesium recognises the signet ring as her brother's, and produces her own ring to match, one that she has kept safe all these years. That is how these stories all go.

The captain takes the ring, miming astonishment. "O Jupiter! This is the same that I presented you upon your birthday; I recognise it as easily as my own self. Welcome to you, my sister."

The audience smiles happily, even though they all knew this was how it would turn out in the end. The brother gives her to Phaedromus to wed, and the crowd laughs to see the greedy pimp's downfall as he is forced to return the thirty minae he was given for her.

"Captain, you'll dine with me," Phaedromus says. "The nuptials shall take place today."

"May this matter turn out well for me and for yourselves," the captain says.

The play is over; an actor steps forward entreating them for applause, and the crowd roars their approval. Bellonus stands and cheers with the rest of them, as it was an excellent play, even if it makes him wish -- no. It is only a play, and these things do not ever happen in life, else why would the plays be full of them? Everyone knows these stories never happen, and yet it pleases them to see the courtesans freed, the greedy pimps given their comeuppance, lovers free to wed. Life never happens thusly.

The rest of the plays are the usual assortment of farces and pantomimes, and the crowd laughs at them all, but none were as good as the first, he thinks to himself.

"So did you like it?" Macula asks, as they make their way out, the day over.

"I did," Bellonus volunteers, too quickly, and to cover himself pokes Annalis in the shoulder. "But you hated it, eh? No blood there."

Annalis laughs. "They should have killed the pimp, then, at the end of the first one. But it was funny, I will grant them that."

"Thank you for joining us, Philippos," Murena says, his eyes showing a bit of concern. He wants to know if his plan worked, Bellonus realises.

"I am glad to have accompanied you," he says, as he and Felix leave.

If only life were like the play. But it was, nonetheless, a good play.

* * *

That night Bellonus does not have a nightmare, but it is so real he knows it is a memory nonetheless. He remembers...

_He knows where he is as soon as he feels the cool British air on his face. He is seventeen. Some of the others in the envoy tease him for having gone native over the past year, wearing braccae and a sleeved tunic, Celtic garb to be sure, but the long trousers keep the cold out. Let the rest of them shiver, bare-legged. But it is getting warmer and warmer, he knows. Almost spring._

_They are living just outside Isurium Brigantum, and on this night it is practically warm, and -- and there is a fire over on the horizon. A fire? It looks huge from here, and there are smaller fires around it._

_"What is that fire?" he asks in his poor Celtic to Morirex, one of the men they are living with. They have been staying with him for a few months, and though they hardly speak each other's languages, Bellonus almost considers the older man a friend._

_There is a long pause before the man answers. "We are honouring the God and Goddess. It is Belotenia tonight."_

_Religious ritual, then. "Is it permitted," he asks eagerly, "to go see this ritual? But if it would bring dishonour, I would not."_

_The man looks down at him for a long while. "You are the only one of your comrades to dress like us, to want to learn our language. I feel you would not dishonour us."_

_"Thank you," Bellonus says, fervently. He's mastered that phrase, at least. As he turns to walk out the man stops him with a tap on the shoulder._

_"Wait," the man says. "You will need this." He presses a mask, unadorned tin, into his hands. "Wear it. And you will not need to speak, so you should not fear they will know you for a Roman."_

_"Thank you," Bellonus says again, confused, and the man smiles at him as he leaves._

_"Enjoy. Honour life," Morirex says in parting._

_Is it celebrating life as Floralia does? Bellonus wonders. Do they offer milk and honey to their goddess too, as he has offered to Flora? He has always enjoyed the dancing, drinking, flowers, and bright clothing of that festival, the one the prostitutes claim as their own. Maybe these people are not so different. He likes dancing, though he knows already it is unmanly of him. Perhaps there will be dancing._

_He ties the half-mask on with its leather thongs as he walks toward the fires. With this mask, with these clothes, no one would know he is a Roman. People have accused him of Celtic blood often enough, with his eyes and fair skin. No one will even know who he is. And he wants to know these people, to know what they do._

_As he comes closer, on the path, he sees people there, in masks, next to the fire, forming a circle. And they -- they are naked._

_Well, he thinks, it is spring almost, and warm enough next to the fires, and leaves his clothes as the others have done, on the outskirts. He steps forward to the edge of the circle, and watches. From the circle, a man and then a woman, both naked, both masked, step forward, looking at each other. They clasp hands, silently, then leap over a small fire. Hands still clasped, they move past the circle, to the edges of the firelight, embracing, and Bellonus suddenly has a much better idea of what the ritual entails. Honour life, indeed. Well, he can certainly do that. It is not so different from some of the goings-on at the Floralia after all._

_His mouth goes dry as the next people to step forward are both men. He waits for the crowd to censure them, but no, it is not forbidden here, it seems. His heart leaps in his chest. And so he too could -- he could --_

_Bellonus finds himself stepping forward, in a daze. He hadn't meant to, so soon, but something about the fires, about the ritual -- there is something powerful here, compelling him._

_He is alone in a circle of people. Who to pick? Who will pick him? How will he know who is right?_

_In front of him, a youth, maybe a year younger than himself, steps forward, smiling, and holds out his hand._ Yes_, Bellonus' mind says, and knows. _This is the one_, he knows, but he does not know how he knows. The youth is thin still, not quite full grown, but then, neither is he himself. The stranger is all angles and planes in the firelight, astonishingly beautiful, naked except for the tin mask, identical to his, and a coiled gold bracelet high on one arm._

_Bellonus takes the stranger's hand, warm in his, and together they leap the fire. The crowd cheers. Still holding hands, they walk to the edge of the darkness. Behind the mask, the stranger's eyes are bright. Maybe they are green; it is hard to tell in the dimness._

_He opens his mouth to say something, confess he is not one of them, but the stranger shushes him, a soft finger against his lips. He is not to speak._

_They sink down together into the grass on the edges of the firelight, and somehow it all feels new. Bellonus is not virginal by any stretch of the imagination -- there have been many already, men and women -- but somehow, none of them have been like this. Is it their god and goddess, doing this to him? The stranger seems fumbling, hesitant, and Bellonus smiles at him, kisses him, runs his fingers through his hair, and soon the other is confident enough. Bellonus feels indeed full of life, joyous, as he and the stranger slide against each other in pleasure, hands here, stroking, caressing, bodies just so. He can think of nothing other than the wonder and goodness of it, and it is exactly, perfectly right._

_Afterwards, they lie still and sweaty, wrapped up in each other, still silent. Bellonus presses sated, grateful kisses to the stranger's fingers, neck, lips. He traces the golden bracelet idly with a fingertip, runs his finger along the pattern of a horse carved into it; it sparkles with reflected fire. The stranger kisses him clumsily but so sweetly, and Bellonus feels his heart so full of happiness that it might burst. They lie there for hours, exploring each other. He is at peace, perfectly content in a way he has never been before._

_After one last kiss, just before dawn, the stranger rises and leaves, eyes sad behind the mask. Neither wishes to part, and Bellonus reaches out his hand, helplessly, as the stranger retreats, but it is too late. He is gone. Bellonus gathers his clothes, cold and alone now, and returns home._

_Morirex smiles to see him. "You have honoured life well, I see."_

_"I have," Bellonus says, still half-dazed from the wonder of the experience. "Tell me, is it permitted to know who--"_

_But Morirex is already shaking his head._

_Even if he knew the other's name, he isn't sure it would help. They are posted to Isurium Brigantum for another six months, but in that time, he never sees the stranger again, for all that he looks for him whenever he goes to town._

Bellonus wakes, smiling but feeling strangely regretful. It is good, he supposes, for his dreams to remind him sometimes of happier things. He hadn't thought about that in years. The boy's probably grown and gone to war now. Killed in battle, most likely; the Brigantes have certainly lost enough men. He might even have killed him himself, for all he knows. For that is what happens in life. It is all death, eventually.

He's never told anyone else about that night. No one else would understand what it means to him. He isn't sure he does, himself.

* * *

In the morning a message arrives for him from a man who identifies himself as a friend of Atellus, with land to sell. Bellonus writes back a reply, indicating his interest in visiting the property. Perhaps the next day. There. With that taken care of, there is still a whole day ahead of him to spend. What should he do?

An idea occurs to him. "Felix!" he calls out.

The man appears quickly enough, attentive as ever. "Yes, _domine_?"

"Come with me to the street of shops," he says. "I wish to purchase a tunic."

Felix's wide face scrunches in confusion. "Did you not just buy a new tunic recently, _domine_? It was only a month or two ago, as I recall."

"It's not for me," Bellonus says.

"I see," Felix agrees, although he clearly does not.

His cousin's voice rumbles from the other room. "Philippos, you're looking for a tunic? For a friend, perhaps?"

"Yes," he calls back. More or less a friend. He hopes.

Marcus appears in the atrium. "I only deal in cloth myself, but I can recommend shops. What sort of tunic?"

"A man's tunic," he says. "A short one." Like he himself wears, because he is a soldier. Like slaves wear, too. "Of the very best quality."

Marcus frowns and scratches his chin. "The very best, eh? Then you'll want Julia Rufilla herself, the daughter of the owner of the cloth-workers' hall in the forum. She has a shop with the rest of them, on the usual street."

"Thank you, cousin," he says, and Marcus inclines his head at him, returning to his office, as he and Felix leave.

He finds Julia Rufilla's shop without difficulty, and is surprised by the pleasant young woman staffing it. She is rather pretty, pale with bold red hair, and Bellonus tries a smile on her. A bit of flattery never hurt anyone.

"What can I do for you?" she says, briskly.

"This is Julia Rufilla's shop, is it not?" he asks. Best to make sure.

The woman nods. "I am she. You won't find better clothing in all Pompeii, sir."

He gapes. "I was expecting someone a little--"

"Older? Uglier? More toothless?"

Bellonus knows when it is better to stay silent. "I'm looking for a man's tunic, if you please. A short one."

She sizes him up expertly with a craftswoman's eye. "For you, sir?"

He shakes his head. "A friend. About my height, perhaps a touch shorter, but built thinner."

Julia hmms to herself. "Are you looking for something lighter, for the heat of summer? I have linen as well as wool."

It might be nice, but, on the other hand, if he's only buying Deomiorix one tunic, he should get the man one he can wear all year. "Wool, I think."

She holds up a tunic, seemingly at random. "Such as this?"

Bellonus inspects it critically, feels the roughness of the weave. It seems plain, serviceable enough, but -- "I was told by my cousin Marcus Cornelius you were the very best. I was hoping for something a little more--"

The woman blinks. "You're Marcus Cornelius' cousin? Why didn't you say so in the first place? Here, sir, perhaps this is more to your taste."

She sweeps aside a few less noteworthy pieces and holds out a different tunic. He can tell immediately that the difference in quality is vast. The wool is the purest white, and is somehow soft, less scratchy. The fabric is thicker and sturdier than the other tunic, and there is a fine bit of green stitching running around the neckline, an intricate pattern. It reminds him of Deomiorix' eyes.

"You have apprentices make the others, eh?" he asks, catching on.

She nods proudly. "This I made myself. It should fit your friend as you've described him. If it does not, come back and I can alter it. It would be too large, if anything."

Bellonus grins. "I think he's the sort of man who'd just belt it tighter."

Julia is looking at him with a merchant's appraising eye now. "I can tell I've sold it to you already, sir; it now remains to agree on a price. Surely you would say work of this quality is worth, oh, eighty sesterces?"

He blinks. It is awfully steep; clearly she is a shrewd businesswoman. "For that, I could buy two new tunics. Fifty."

She scoffs. "Fifty is an insult. You can tell my work is the very best. I might consider seventy-five."

"Sixty," Bellonus shoots back.

"Seventy."

"Sixty-five."

"Agreed," she says, and Felix hands her the sum in a jingle of coins while Bellonus takes the tunic, the wool remarkably soft in his hands. "You drive a hard bargain, sir. I hope it pleases your friend."

"I hope so as well," he says. Felix carries the tunic for him, and they leave.

* * *

The next morning, after a night mercifully free of dreams, he saddles Boukephalos again -- the only good thing about this is that he's getting to do some riding, he thinks -- and heads out to the country to see more land for sale.

It's further away from the city -- which is good, which is what he wanted -- but somehow it is still not right. It is too large, land and villa both.

The owner frowns at him in consternation. "If you can afford to buy it, sir, you can always sell some of the land off." It is clearly a bizarre complaint he's made to the man, then.

Bellonus shakes his head. He could, but -- if he is to retire, he wants something perfect as is. No settling for anything less. Otherwise, he might as well go back to the army. It is like a bargain he makes with himself: if he finds the perfect place, he will buy it and retire. But he knows perfection is unlikely. He might as well go back to the army, anyway; his mind is still there, half the time. He shakes his head again, more roughly, clearing it of the fog of visions.

"I would prefer one where the villa is smaller as well," he says.

The man shrugs. "That, I cannot help you with. I'll ask around for you, though."

"Thank you anyway," he says, politely, and mounts Boukephalos for the long, dusty journey back to town. Only once does the pounding of hoofbeats make him freeze and think of battle.

* * *

Later that day, after the baths, he excuses Felix and heads out alone, as always, to the brothel. His money is at his belt; the tunic he alternately carries under his arm or clutches nervously in his hands. He feels silly for having bought it. One gives gifts to fine courtesans -- should there ever be any hetaerae outside of Greece, which he doubts -- not prostitutes in anonymous crowded brothels. Not that a man of his class should ever be here in the first place -- and this is not even considering the shamefulness of his desires, even the ones he still hasn't spoken of. He cannot speak of them. He cannot have them. But at least he can come here, and so he does.

The woman at the desk gives a broad grin as she sees him, and now he knows he is overpaying for sure. "We still have fine new slave-boys, sir," she says. Does she think he'll pay more? "If you're interested," she adds, still grinning. "I see how much you appreciate variety." A joke, then.

He gives a smile in return. "I would still prefer Britannicus." The name, now that he knows it is fake, feels odd on his lips.

"I think he would prefer you," the woman says, still smiling, the way one passes on tidbits of information. "He has spoken well of you, in your absence."

Bellonus finds the news somehow pleasing and startling. "Has he?"

The woman pitches her voice quieter. "He has. He seems -- pleased -- and, sir, we're all happy if he's happy. Usually, the most we content ourselves with is a client who doesn't make the boys cry." This is, perhaps, more frankly than she should have spoken; she's either a liberta or a slave herself.

"I'll try not to make him cry," Bellonus says, and laughs a little. The woman relaxes; he's not going to tell the owners.

"Very well," she says. "An hour?"

"An hour," he agrees, placing his usual outrageous sum on the desk.

The woman nods. "He's in the usual room." She tilts her head toward the warren of corridors.

As Bellonus approaches the cell, he hears something -- the sound of a girl crying, and then Deomiorix' voice, too muffled to make out. Clearly not a client, but a friend, perhaps one of the other prostitutes.

"Don't cry, Aucissa," Deomiorix says, louder, in Celtic. A Celtic name, as well. "It's all right."

The girl -- Aucissa, he guesses -- sniffles a little. "But I am dishonoured. The things they do to me, and I see how people look at me on the street. They stare, when I go out, and call out things I don't understand." She must be new here, if she knows so little Latin. Her Celtic is a little harder to understand; perhaps she hails from a different tribe.

"What does it matter what they think of you?" Deomiorix asks. He is quieter now, but Bellonus has moved closer. He wants to know what Deomiorix will say. "They will always treat us thus. You have your honour, no matter what they do; the Goddess protects us even in these lands."

"But she doesn't," the girl says, starting to cry again. "She is not here, only these strange gods, and these Romans have defiled my body, so now I am unclean in her sight--"

"Come here. Shh," Deomiorix says, and there's the sound of fabric rustling. Perhaps they are moving closer. "It's hard, at first, to take what they do to us. I know. But it is a better life than many have here; we are fed, and we are not beaten so much."

A pause, an indrawn breath. "I would rather be beaten. At least then I would not shame myself."

"Having tried both, I wouldn't," Deomiorix responds quietly, which is an oddly blunt statement with which to comfort someone, Bellonus thinks. But it seems to work. "And do you think the Goddess is capricious like these gods, who are forever punishing people for this or that, as their whims take them? She knows you do not do this by choice. It only shames you if you let it."

"But she isn't even here," Aucissa protests.

"She is still here; she has not turned away from you. I promise. Have you seen the lararium upstairs?" The Latin word sounds strange, out of place in the middle of the Celtic. "Atto, Comux and I set up figures there two years ago for us, so that we all could offer to her if we liked. You are welcome there."

Aucissa stops crying. "You... you did?"

"We did," Deomiorix says. "So you see, she is still with us. She is even there in some of the Roman goddesses. If you have a free day I will show you, at one of the temples."

"I would like that." The girl sounds recovered, and Bellonus takes that as his cue, pushing aside the curtain to see the two of them sitting on the bed, Deomiorix' arm around her.

Aucissa turns out to be very young, fourteen or so, with pale hair and a face that would be pretty if it were not streaked with tears. She looks up at Bellonus, afraid, and then back to Deomiorix, who smiles to see him.

"Hail, Philippos," Deomiorix says in Latin, still smiling, and his clear happiness makes Aucissa look puzzled.

"I greet you both," Bellonus returns, politely, in Celtic, and now Aucissa looks shocked, glancing back and forth between them both. "I had hoped to spend time with Deomiorix here, this afternoon."

"Are you all right now, Aucissa?" Deomiorix asks, and the girl nods, silent, rising to her feet. "Good."

Bellonus enters, and the girl stops just before the door.

"I didn't think any Romans knew our language, or cared to learn it," she says quietly.

Bellonus smiles at her, trying to look as little of a threat as he can. "There are surprises everywhere."

The girl looks nervously over at Deomiorix, whose relaxed grin is a joy to behold. "They're not all brutes, Aucissa. This one is kind."

Aucissa nods once, clearly still uncomfortable in his presence, and then darts quickly out the door, leaving the curtain open. Bellonus pulls it shut.

"Kind?" Bellonus asks, because it's the only thing he can think of to say. _Kind_. Coming from him, it's quite a compliment.

"Sorry about that," Deomiorix says, dodging the question. "I didn't know you were there. She's new, and scared; the new ones like to talk to me, sometimes."

"Do you really believe all that?" Bellonus asks, suddenly. "About your goddess being here, what you were saying."

Deomiorix' face closes off. "Sometimes," he says, sounding terribly sad. He runs his hands through his hair, shuts his eyes for an instant, and the expression is gone. "So," he says, smiling now. "Another hour."

"That would be excellent, Deomiorix," he says, testing the name aloud. What if the man didn't mean for him to use it? What if--?

Deomiorix smiles wider. "Very well, then, Philippos."

"Well. I hope you do not mind my company."

The man looks a little wary at that, skittish, afraid of revealing too much, and finally settles on "No. I do not mind in the least."

Bellonus smiles again, suddenly awkward, and holds out the tunic. "Here. I bought you -- this."

Deomiorix stares at him in confusion. "I think you may have confused me with a hetaera. You don't buy whores gifts."

"No," he mumbles. "I know this is not Greece." He hadn't thought the man might refuse. "Your tunic, I saw, was threadbare," he says, hastily, "and I thought you might want--"

The man turns his face away briefly, cracked cheekbone standing out in profile, before turning back. "I do not need gifts. Please." His mood, mercurial, shifts to anger, and his eyes flash.

Does it shame him, to accept largesse? What is the matter? No, Bellonus realises suddenly, he is afraid. _He is afraid that if he takes it he will feel beholden to me, and he is afraid to give me that power over him, with so little of himself left for anyone._

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Bellonus says. "Wear it, or not, or sell it and buy yourself a fine meal. It is not to please me; I thought merely that it would please you, and," he hesitates, "you seem to me a man whose life could use more pleasures in it."

Somehow it was the right thing to say. Deomiorix' face softens, and he gives a short, mocking laugh. "Oh, but whores' lives are full of pleasures, don't you know?"

The statement is shockingly, horribly, sad, and Bellonus wishes for one mad instant that things had gone otherwise, somehow, for Deomiorix does not deserve this life. "Here," he says again, holding out the tunic. "At least feel the softness of the wool."

"Wool? Soft?" Deomiorix snorts, but he reaches out for the tunic. His eyes widen suddenly, and he smiles. "It _is_ soft," he marvels, pulling the garment into his hands, holding it out in front of him. "And sturdy, too." He runs a thumb along the green stitching on the neckline. "And pretty, all at once."

Bellonus shifts from foot to foot, suddenly bashful. "It reminded me of your eyes."

The corners of Deomiorix' mouth twitch in what could almost be another smile, or a frown. "This is extravagant. I don't deserve--"

"You deserve it," Bellonus says quickly. "You will be beautiful in it."

Deomiorix snorts and looks down at his old, dingy, threadbare tunic. "Perhaps." His face softens. "All right, I'll try it on."

He sets the new tunic on the bed and efficiently removes his belt, pulling the old one over his head, and Bellonus is struck again by the elegance of the man's body, built thin but well-muscled, hardly scrawny. He can feel his cock rousing already, just at the sight of him.

"You're beautiful already," he says, faintly, "in case I forgot to mention."

Deomiorix looks over at him, and whatever his face looks like, it must be convincing, because the man smiles a suddenly different smile, and his voice is much lower. "Or I could try it on afterwards, eh?"

He holds out a hand -- Bellonus feels a sudden flash of something, half-remembered -- and Bellonus takes it, lets the man pull him to him, and together they curl on the tiny bed, half-tangled in Bellonus' toga.

"Here," Deomiorix says, "let's get this out of the way, shall we?"

There is some awkward shifting, but finally Deomiorix manages to get his toga and tunic off -- "Didn't buy a new one for yourself, did you?" he asks, laughing -- and they are curled together again, unencumbered by fabric.

Deomiorix, head on his shoulder, runs a hand lightly down Bellonus' bare chest. Bellonus feels oddly self-conscious.

"You're beautiful as well," Deomiorix says, quietly. Something about the way his voice quivers as he says it -- he means it. This is no fakery.

What can he say to that? They can't go down that path, the one where all the words they say are real; he knows there is no good end to it. The vision of Athanasios, dead in his arms, floats before him.

So Bellonus turns it into a joke. "Tell that to all your clients, do you?"

Deomiorix' laugh thrums against his chest. "To Romans, so concerned about their manhood? No, all they ever want to hear about is how they are mighty and powerful and strong. Their cock, especially."

His own cock twitches hopefully at these words, somewhere against Deomiorix' hip, and they both chuckle at that. "Clearly I am not immune to that kind of flattery either," Bellonus says, feeling sheepish.

Deomiorix smiles against him, shifting to wrap his hand around Bellonus' cock, and he gives a triumphant look when Bellonus groans. "Indeed. So, what shall we do with your time?" It's a change from _my desires are irrelevant_, certainly.

With an effort, Bellonus reaches down and wrests the man's hand away. "Not -- not that."

Deomiorix lifts his head to peer at him, eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Am I displeasing you? Would you prefer my mouth again? I know you liked that."

The thought is appealing, but-- "No," Bellonus manages. "It's not fair to you. Because you can't even--"

He watches Deomiorix' face settle as he comprehends the meaning. "Philippos," he starts, and Bellonus can't suppress the thrill he gets just from the man saying his name, "I am a whore. You have paid to see me, you have given me gifts far beyond my deserving of it. I own nothing. All I have to repay you with is my body. I am pleased, believe me; I shall please you in return."

"It -- that's not what I want," he says.

"Then what do you want? Tell me," Deomiorix says, eyes bright, "and I will do it for you." It is solemn, almost like a vow.

Bellonus takes a deep breath, and parts with the least of his secret desires. "I want to touch you."

Deomiorix frowns. "I have told you, though, you know I cannot--"

"Not like that," Bellonus says, and the man only looks more confused. "I just want to touch you. Anywhere. Everywhere. The rest of it -- doesn't matter to me."

Deomiorix is shaking his head as he sits up. "You're a madman, Philippos."

Bellonus grins back. "So I have been told." He moves off the bed, and Deomiorix rolls onto his stomach, exposing again the long length of his body, the sight of which takes his breath away, again. His back is pale, traced lightly with scars here and there, the legacy of beatings, he supposes, and follows the line of it down to the curve of his buttocks. Beautiful. Bellonus swallows, remembering the way the man arched and flexed under him, the last time, the pure joy of it.

Deomiorix smiles, though the look in his eyes is strange, almost fearful. "How do you want me, then?"

"Wherever you're comfortable," Bellonus says, and he feels his voice unsteady. Perhaps they have taken a turn down the path where things they say are real after all. Small wonder they are afraid.

"I am comfortable here," the man says in return, laying his head on his arms.

Bellonus perches next to the bed, kneeling hands hovering bare inches above the man's body, and he has to ask: "Do you want me to touch you?" He hadn't actually asked; what if he says no?

Deomiorix' voice is barely above a whisper. "Please. Yes."

He brings his hands down on the man's shoulders, tracing the planes of bone and muscle. He runs one hand up the back of his neck, to Deomiorix' hair, burying his fingers in the auburn curls, and the man sighs happily.

"You like that?"

"Mmm," Deomiorix says, and so he spends time there, running his fingers through the man's hair as he sighs his happiness again and again.

Bellonus moves his hands back to Deomiorix' shoulders, then lower, down his spine, the middle of his back, down to his buttocks, working each area one by one. There is so much tension in the man's body, so much fear, slowly melting under his fingertips. He spends time equally on every place he can reach, and Deomiorix mumbles inarticulate sounds of pleasure into his pillowed arms.

He discovers that the man is particularly sensitive along the backs of his thighs, and there is a spot just there where the thigh meets the buttocks that makes Deomiorix moan aloud, so loudly that he looks up in concern.

"You are unharmed?"

A dazed smile. "I am much better than unharmed, Philippos. Please--"

How strange, that he should be here, kneeling, obeying the request of a prostitute, a slave. But it is much like what he has wanted for a long time -- at least, part of it.

So he continues, down Deomiorix' legs, not neglecting a single spot, and he discovers that Deomiorix really very much enjoys having his feet rubbed, so he spends a while there, enjoying the gratified sounds the man is making as he digs his thumbs into tense muscles. The noises issuing from Deomiorix are practically obscene; he tries to suppress his reaction. This is not about him.

"I feel as if I have melted," Deomiorix mumbles, "all my bones gone."

Bellonus smiles. "Good."

"Would you like to turn over?" he asks, quietly. "If you would not, that is all right as well."

But Deomiorix pushes up onto his elbows, gives him a brilliant smile, and rolls onto his back. This side of him is just as beautiful, and Bellonus, still at his feet, rubs more lightly up along bony shins and thighs, up to his hips. He isn't hard, of course, but Bellonus can't help imagining him as he would be, the feel of it.

The awkwardness comes then, as Deomiorix' face reddens, embarrassed, when he sees Bellonus gazing at his lax genitals. "I told you," he murmurs. "I am incapable."

"And I told you," he replies, "this is not about that. Would it hurt if I touched you there?" Perhaps those who hurt him so badly have broken him there, somehow, too--

Deomiorix shakes his head. "No, it doesn't hurt. And I'd -- I'd like you to. But just don't expect anything, eh?"

Bellonus smiles at him. "All right, then."

Carefully, gently, he runs his fingers across Deomiorix' soft cock, cups his balls, touches him with just as much care as he was touching him everywhere else.

Deomiorix sighs happily. "That does feel good."

He strokes him a little more, slowly, and, unexpectedly, there is a twitch against his palm, and Deomiorix gasps, aroused and surprised. "Oh--"

"Not what you were expecting?" he asks, smiling, stroking the man more; he is half-hard now, pleasantly filling Bellonus' grip.

Deomiorix groans. "I can't-- I'm sorry--"

And as fast as it came, it is gone; Deomiorix is soft again. He strokes him anyway.

"It's all right," Bellonus says again, gently. "It's not about that."

The man regards him in amazement. "That hasn't happened to me in five years, not even that much. What have you done to me?"

"I don't know." What has Deomiorix done to him, too, taking away the madness? Perhaps they work wonders on each other.

He does not neglect the rest of the man's body, and moves his hands over chest, ribs, neck. His owners must feed him poorly, but he is still beautiful.

Finally, he dares to brush Deomiorix' face, gently, with the back of his hand, feeling stubble against his skin, but that is as far as he dares to go. Anything else, he knows, would be too much, too sudden. Besides, their time together is almost up.

The man captures his hand with one of his own and pulls him up; they sit on the bed together. Deomiorix gestures at him -- Bellonus is, of course, erect.

"Are you sure you don't want me to--?"

Bellonus shakes his head. "No, I told you; I only wanted to touch you."

Deomiorix laughs, delighted, incredulous. "You are indeed mad."

"Only a madman would spend an hour touching someone with nothing in return? Well, I must say, I am most pleasantly mad, then."

Deomiorix smiles at him. "A madman, yes."

Knowing that their time is up, he rises, fumbles with his tunic, gets help with the toga, and turns, after putting his sandals back on, to see Deomiorix clad in his new tunic.

"You look beautiful," he says, honestly.

The smile Deomiorix gives him is heartbreakingly grateful. "Thank you. For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," he says, grinning. "I enjoyed touching you."

Deomiorix shakes his head and laughs back. "Only a madman would," he says. "Be well." Then he smiles, looking strangely nervous, and is gone.

As Bellonus makes his way back into the streets of Pompeii, another possibility occurs to him: a madman would, but so would a lover.

* * *

His dreams that night, though he can't quite remember them, are pleasant; Bellonus wakes refreshed, rested, and calm. Whatever Deomiorix has done to him, truly, is a blessing.

After dressing and taking breakfast, he ponders reading again in the atrium. He had been avoiding military texts, but today, he thinks, perhaps, he can stand them. He has only just picked up the scroll of Caesar's work on the Gallic Wars and got as far as the first half of the first sentence, _Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres_, when light, quick footsteps in the atrium announce a visitor.

He turns to see a boy, dressed in a ragged tunic, clutching a hinged tablet. A messenger, then.

Bellonus rises to greet the youth. "Have you a message for someone in the household?"

The boy nods, panting, out of breath. He must have run here. Either the message is urgent, or he is hoping for a reward for his speed. Perhaps both. "Is this the house of the merchant Marcus Cornelius?"

Bellonus holds out his hand. "Yes, and the message?"

But the boy shakes his head. "I am told to deliver this to the hand of the man's cousin, one Gaius Cornelius, and none other. A private message."

Bellonus nods. "I am he."

The boy still looks reticent. The problem with being new in cities is that no one knows you, and that, of course, leads to conundrums like this.

"Come now," he says. "In this house I am either Gaius or Marcus, and why would Marcus, a merchant, be a narrow-striped tribune? He is not in the army." And his rank is, of course, perfectly clear from his clothing.

The boy relaxes upon hearing this. "He did say you were an officer. Here," he says, thrusting the tablet at him. "I was told a reply was not necessary." Is it some military matter, then? If so, why send such a youth?

"You have delivered it well," Bellonus says, fetching a coin from his pouch for the boy. "Be well."

"Thank you, sir." The boy darts out the door as quickly as he came, and is gone.

Bellonus stares at the folded wax tablet in puzzlement before deciding that nothing can be learned if he does not open it, and so he flips the tablet open.

The message, for all that it is printed in neat Latin, follows none of the formats of a letter that he is used to, starting abruptly with the message. Nonetheless, he knows who has written it. He mouths each word quietly to himself.

_I am free this afternoon, and I long for the company of a friend. If you should wish to spend the time with me, meet me outside my home at the seventh hour. D._

Bellonus smiles broadly and sets the tablet in his cubiculum, securely among his things. No use leaving it lying about for the slaves to gossip about, even though his cousin is probably the only one in the house, aside from his scribe, who can read. And his cousin certainly doesn't need to know either, but it is good that the message is so... circumspect. Deomiorix probably thought it unwise to be more specific to a scribe, thankfully, since of course he could not have written it himself. After all, a slave who had the skill of writing would never have been sold as a prostitute.

He will accept. A friend. Deomiorix called him a friend. Somehow that, more than the rest of the message itself, fills him with joy.

* * *

Perhaps slightly earlier than the appointed seventh hour, Bellonus finds himself lurking in the street outside the brothel, oddly nervous. Ordinarily he would have attributed the emotion to the press of the crowd, reminding him uncomfortably of battle, but now he is nervous because of his impending meeting with Deomiorix. What will they say to each other? What will they do? What if -- what if the message was not from him, but from another?

The door opens, and Deomiorix, wearing his new tunic, steps out onto the street. He sees Bellonus, smiles, and moves across the street to him with a quick elegance like and somehow unlike that of the cinaedus. The way he moves is beautiful.

"Philippos, you came," he says, still smiling. His real voice. His face is free of makeup. His tunic is belted tightly, as a proper man's is, and somehow most of the curl in his hair has been pulled out, although he can clearly do nothing about the length. They must curl it for him at the brothel, or perhaps it is curly already and he has combed it. And he is still beautiful. Even more so, without all the artifice.

"I did," Bellonus says, relieved, still staring at him. To look at him, you'd never know he was a cinaedus. Or a prostitute, for that matter. But why?

Deomiorix catches his stare and somehow divines the meaning behind it. "Did you think I'd skip out here, singing and dancing, loose-belted, making a spectacle of myself?"

Bellonus says nothing. He wants to be with this man, and it shouldn't shame him for the man to be a cinaedus. One who loves men must be, after all, and yet here they both are, looking for all the world as respectable men. Pretending, and Deomiorix is braver than him for at least not hiding it. For if anyone knew what he wanted, if even _Deomiorix_ knew what he wanted--

"You did, didn't you," the man says, giving him a strangely tender smile. "It's only an act. For the clients. It's what they like to see, how they think a man who likes men should behave. It's not real. And I go out as a cinaedus sometimes -- I can hardly be thought _less_ of, after all -- but I know you don't like it. I can tell that much. And I wouldn't want to shame you for being in my company."

Bellonus nods, numbly. "I -- thank you. And I thank you for inviting me." So if being a cinaedus is an act, does that mean he does not truly desire men? But this is hardly a question to ask of anyone on a crowded street.

"I was worried," Deomiorix says, "that you might not come. That you might not think me a friend, or wish to be seen with me at all."

They move closer to each other in the press of the crowd. "I am -- happy to think of you as a friend." That, of course, is the most he can say. The most he can ever say. Feelings have never been easy for him.

"I would have asked earlier, yesterday," Deomiorix says, mercifully changing the subject, "but I did not know until today I was to have free time. We rarely do."

"So what do you do with your free time?"

Deomiorix shrugs, as they walk down the street, almost, but not quite touching. "The forum, sometimes. The baths, more often than not. And if I'm free at the appropriate time, the Temple of Isis, to go to the water ritual."

"Isis?" This surprises him; he wouldn't have guessed the man was a follower of Isis.

Deomiorix looks a little embarrassed at that. "She -- she reminds me of my Goddess. And they promise hope to slaves like me. A better life after this one. I take it you don't follow her?"

Bellonus shakes his head. "Mithras." He's always been rather pragmatic about religion. Mithras is the soldiers' god, so naturally that's the path for him. Not that he participates much in the cult, but if it gets him a better place in the afterlife, who can object to having to kill a few bulls?

"Ah." Deomiorix grins. "Should have figured you for a Mithras follower, soldier." They bump into each other, in the weave and press of the crowd, and Deomiorix' hand brushes briefly against his. A thrill sizzles all along his body. What is this man doing to him?

"So, to the baths, then? Which do you usually go to?"

Deomiorix shrugs. "Depends. The Stabian or the Sarno, usually."

"And I go to the Forum. No wonder I haven't seen you."

"How about the Suburban Baths?" Deomiorix names the privately-owned baths known for its fine decorations. "They've a large heated pool, or so they say, and a waterfall, and I've always heard they're very elegant. The palaestra is large too." As a slave, he probably can't afford the more expensive private baths. "And it's men's hours there now, too."

"I'll pay your entrance fee. I've never been," Bellonus says, "so I hope you know where it is." Should he tell Deomiorix about his fits? What if he has one? What if--?

Deomiorix takes his hand briefly, and Bellonus feels himself grow shaky again at the touch. "This way."

* * *

Bellonus pays the doorkeeper for both of them and looks around the palaestra, impressed. "This _is_ nice."

"Isn't it?" says Deomiorix, coming up behind him. "I hear the baths themselves are even nicer."

The palaestra -- the whole complex for that matter -- is smaller than some of the other baths, since there aren't separate sections for men and women, but everything looks sparkling and neatly maintained. It is not quite so crowded as the forum baths, probably because of the hour and the increased cost. There's room for handball, swordplay, wrestling, discus-throwing, all the usual activities.

Bellonus swallows and feels his vision starting to grey as he watches two men at the far end of the palaestra swing swords. _Not again_, he is aware of thinking, dimly, as the shouts grow louder, the battle in his mind closer. His heart pounds, and he stumbles.

Strong hands grab him by the shoulders and he looks up into Deomiorix' concerned face.

"Philippos, what's the matter? Are you ill?"

He shakes his head and lets Deomiorix lead him to the walkway, feeling stronger already with the man's hands on him. So he will have to explain after all.

"It is -- I have fits," he mumbles, ashamed. "Where I feel I am in battle. They come upon me from time to time. Nightmares, too. It's worse when I see things that remind me--" he gestures helplessly over at the men with their swords. He looks up, ready to see Deomiorix' eyes, condemning him.

But the man only smiles, encouraging him. "I have heard of such a thing happening to soldiers. Is there something I can do to help?"

Bellonus smiles back, weakly. "This will sound strange, I am sure, but I find that when I see you, or sometimes think of you, it's--" He can't even finish the sentence. And already it is better now, just looking at him.

Deomiorix, hands still on him, rubs at his shoulders gently through the layer of clothing. "I am glad I can help. I was going to ask you to wrestle, but if you fear it will go badly--"

He knows, somehow, that he wouldn't slip and hurt Deomiorix like he did Crassus. He is as sure of it as he is of anything. But still, wrestling? "Would you not be outmatched?" He does know what the man looks like, after all.

Deomiorix chuckles. "I am not fragile. And I am stronger than I look. You think I ask because I enjoy losing?"

Bellonus snorts. "You think you can beat me?"

A grin, bright-eyed. "Best of three? But--" Deomiorix looks around-- "I think we will need to head to the apodyterium first. You cannot very well wrestle in that toga, and I have no loincloth myself. My owners don't give me one." They will have to wrestle in the nude, then.

"Challenging a Greek to wrestle in the Greek style?" Bellonus can't help but laugh. He likes how this man makes him laugh. "You are confident."

The apodyterium is painted a brilliant red. As they slip their clothes into the wooden boxes on the shelves, Bellonus grins to see the obscene paintings on the wall behind the boxes. Precisely the reaction they are to inspire.

Deomiorix does not grin, pulling off his tunic, and instead winces at the sight. "Those are a little too familiar, I am afraid."

"If they don't make you laugh, friend," he dares call him such, "we are all in trouble, should you see a body you envy." For, as everyone knows, the paintings are there to make you laugh, and while laughing you cannot give the Evil Eye to anyone whose body you are envious of, finding it better than yours.

Deomiorix looks over at Bellonus, eyeing him up and down, with a strange half-smile. His eyes are wide and dark in the dimness of the room. "I don't think envy, exactly, is a thing you ought to worry about from me. Rather, another emotion," he whispers, and Bellonus' heart leaps and races. Dangerous conversation to be having in an apodyterium, of all places.

He smiles and tries not to think about just how beautiful Deomiorix is as they head back together, naked, into the sunlight.

By the time they get to the wrestling ring, he's nearly managed to shove all of those messy thoughts and feelings out of the way. They cannot be indulged here.

Deomiorix shakes his head back as they enter the ring, hair a stunning silhouette of fire, and -- no. An opponent. Think of him as the opponent, Bellonus tells himself. He is thin, all right, but they're almost the same height, and there's muscle there. This won't be easy.

"Best of three?"

"Best of three," Deomiorix confirms.

The first point goes to Bellonus within seconds of the match starting, as he rushes, hard, and, using his weight against the man, shoves Deomiorix out of the circle. Deomiorix only laughs up at him, still bright-eyed. And he -- he still has control. He hasn't lost himself in the fight. This is good.

Deomiorix chuckles as they move back into position. "Don't think that trick will work more than once, now."

Nonetheless, he tries it again, and somehow Deomiorix takes the movement, flows past him, and grabs him, hard, flipping him around against him. Bellonus struggles, but the man has him held fast, immobile. An arm reaches up to his throat, lightly, not to hurt but to show merely that he has the upper hand. He _is_ good after all. Excellent.

"Point's yours," Bellonus gasps, impressed, and just like that the man releases him. Clever fighter like that, they could use him in the army -- but they can't. Slaves can't be in the army. Not that this man would ever serve Rome, in any case.

Deomiorix smiles, the smile of a predator, and Bellonus smiles it back at him. Here they are, evenly matched after all. He feels blood pounding through his veins, just as in battle, but here there are no visions. The man has given him back his power.

They circle each other a while, each sizing the other up, looking for an opening, and finally Deomiorix takes it, moving forward against him. Bellonus spins, using the movement against him just as Deomiorix had done before. He holds Deomiorix back against him, arm around his throat, and then leans forward, using his weight as an advantage, dropping both of them to the ground. Surely the man will call out now, from fear?

But he does not, and Deomiorix is holding himself up, barely, on hands and knees, with Bellonus on his back, arm around his throat, his full weight on him. And still the man does not cry out, does not cede him the point. He's _good_, Bellonus thinks, trying to press harder.

Deomiorix arches up against him and for one instant Bellonus' traitorous body deigns to take pleasure in the feel of the other man's body, tight against his, slippery with sweat. Oh no. This is not the place for that.

But it's too late. Deomiorix is up, and flipping him, and Bellonus' back touches the ground. Match over. Deomiorix has won.

Deomiorix, smiling brightly, extends a hand. "Well-fought."

"To you as well," Bellonus replies, letting himself be pulled up. "By Pollux! You are good." They fight well together, somehow, better than he'd thought. Better than sparring with anyone has made him feel in a while.

"You nearly had me, though," Deomiorix confesses, as they begin the walk back to the apodyterium, for the bath that both of them now surely deserve.

"I was -- distracted," is all Bellonus can manage, but from the look Deomiorix gives him, he has a feeling the man knows exactly what happened.

* * *

When they get to the caldarium, Bellonus is even more impressed than he was by the rest of the baths, and that includes the waterfall built into the tepidarium. The caldarium is a huge heated pool, the size of which like nothing he has seen in Pompeii. Toward the far end, there are even men swimming in it. Brilliant mosaics along one side depict fantastical sea creatures, and the other side shows Roman victories at sea.

He picks his way to a seat along the bench in the shallow side. "This is wonderful, Deomiorix. Thank you for recommending it."

The man laughs and slides in next to him. "I've never been here myself, so I can hardly take all the credit."

Bellonus smiles back and feels a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature. If they are friends, they should chat as friends do, but he knows nothing about the man. "I know they haven't built anything like this in Isurium Brigantum."

"They haven't," Deomiorix says, with a wary, guarded look. He doesn't want to talk about his past. Bellonus understands that. "But in Neapolis?"

"They may very well have," says Bellonus, just as warily, "but I haven't seen it since I was sixteen. I wasn't to inherit, my family never liked me, and they happily sent me off to follow Cerialis. Which is how I ended up in your Isurium Brigantum. I loved it there. Better than home, in a lot of ways." There, that's the short version. He can hear the words coming out of his mouth clipping harshly with tension.

Best not to think about his family, how he was a disappointment to all of them, finally getting shoved off to the army because his father called in some favours with friends to get him posted to Cerialis' legion. Best not to think about how hard he tried to impress them, to be a virtuous man, and it was still never enough...

Deomiorix is dangerously close to him, leaning his head on his shoulder, stroking his arm with light fingertips underwater. But no one is watching them. His hands are beautiful, Bellonus finds himself thinking. His fingers are long, perfectly shaped. If Bellonus isn't careful he'll find himself imagining them doing things he shouldn't think about, and certainly not in a public bath.

"I'm sorry I asked," Deomiorix says, "I of all people should know that the past is difficult to talk about." And at least he has a family, unlike poor Deomiorix.

"It's all right," he says, and it is, somehow. "I've had a fine career anyway, without them. No sense in me complaining. And here I am only just in Pompeii."

Deomiorix blinks. "That new here, are you?"

He nods. "I came to see you... my second day. I was--" he can feel his mouth twisting as he tries to think of a word-- "lonely."

Deomiorix' hand, underwater, fastens on his wrist. A lifeline. "Many people are."

"I've followed Cerialis from legion to legion," he says, feeling a little silly explaining it, "and now that he's suffect consul, I can't follow him anymore."

He feels gentle fingers stroke his hand again, while he keeps talking. "And the fits are getting worse -- except when I'm with you -- and I don't know whether to continue in the army or settle down and--"

Bellonus stops suddenly, aware of who he's talking to, pouring his heart out to a slave who gets fucked by men for money he doesn't even see any of. "I know my worries are petty compared to yours."

"I used to have a fine life," Deomiorix murmurs, quietly. "Don't feel sorry for me. I had family, and friends, and the best of all things."

"I met your queen once," Bellonus says, not really sure why he's saying it. "Maybe twice. We were a trading envoy at first." Against him he can feel Deomiorix tense, oddly. "Cartimandua seemed to me a wise ruler." He was only seventeen, and it was thirteen long years ago; he has vague memories of a beautiful woman, red-haired and green-eyed, graceful and at the same time commanding. She'd been loyal to the empire, handing over Caratacus, though this was long before Bellonus' time, and as a reward the emperor Claudius had given her domain the status of client kingdom, with further rewards for her. Of course, then she divorced Venutius, her husband, to marry his armour-bearer Vellocatus.

"She was," comes Deomiorix' soft reply. "She was a wise ruler, and a great one. Until her former husband felt the need to revolt openly against her, of course, everything was fine."

"I was with the legion that supported her," Bellonus says, knowing that clarifying this is somehow important. "I was in Britannia almost eight years, you know, the first time. Trading in Brigantia, trying to get to know your people for the first two years or so, before we were sent south against the Iceni. Then another six. We fought for your queen, of course, in all the little skirmishes here and there. Until we couldn't, anymore -- I'd gone back to help in Rome, supporting Vespasianus. And then I heard Venutius--"

"He overran Isurium Brigantum. Everything was fine until that, until--"

"Until you were sold into slavery." He doesn't know why he feels the need to complete the sentence, but Deomiorix only nods against his shoulder.

"It's been five years since then," he says, and Bellonus can count backwards just fine. Sometime during Venutius' revolt, perhaps, in the Year of the Four Emperors, when he was so busy himself. "I hated your people, the Roman soldiers who betrayed me to slavers." What went on? Soldiers, selling him? He dares not press for details. "Hated you all since then."

"I can see why you must have. But we're not all of a piece, you know." He says it gently, carefully.

"I know," Deomiorix says. "I see that now. I thought you must be horrible at first, like all the others, but you -- you don't treat me like a whore, or even a slave. You treat me better than I deserve."

"You deserve better than you've got," Bellonus counters.

"So do a lot of people." He raises his eyebrows, a question. "Why pick me?" The look on his face is wary. Maybe he thinks Bellonus is toying with him, gaining his trust to take it all away. He hasn't earned his trust yet. But he's trying.

Bellonus shrugs. "I don't know. I can't explain it." There's the half he can't explain -- that mysterious magic that works between them, fixing that which is broken -- and the half he can, full of emotions whose names dare not pass his lips. Why did this man, of all of them, stand out to him? "I like you. It pleases me greatly to see you. I have grown fond of your company, and not just--"

Deomiorix lifts his head and smiles. "I have of yours as well." He says it slowly, like the words are difficult to admit, and for a man who hates Romans, of course they are. And it is strange, impossible even, that they should be friends, a prostitute and an equestrian, but Bellonus' heart warms to hear the words. Friendship. It is a slow, tentative start, but everything must start somewhere. Perhaps more than friendship.

After they go to the men with their strigils and oil, Bellonus catches himself smiling at Deomiorix as they walk toward the frigidarium.

* * *

There, of course, is where everything goes wrong.

A voice from behind him calls out, "Hail, Bellonus," and Bellonus knows before he even turns to look who it will be. Oh no.

"Hail, senator," he says, weakly, and he can feel Deomiorix' confused stare as he turns.

Crassus catches up with him in the cold pool, beady eyes gleaming. "I saw you in the palaestra, Greek, giving this man a fair challenge, as you denied me, and now I see that he is your slave?" There is, of course, no way to tell, but it is a fair supposition to make that a Celt in the heart of the empire is a slave.

"He's not my slave, senator," Bellonus says, feeling that that at least ought to be made clear.

"Ah, so he's someone's slave," Crassus says, and claps a proprietary hand on Deomiorix, heavily. "What is your name, slave?"

Deomiorix plasters on one of his fake smiles -- and it is good that he can lie so to the man -- and answers. "My owners call me Britannicus, senator."

Crassus looks between the two of them. "If he's not yours, Bellonus--" He stops. "Ah, well, I see, you always did love the Celts so much. I see why you would want to have one here; does he belong to the baths, perhaps?" The conclusion he's come to is at once exactly right and exactly wrong. He makes it sound all wrong, twisted, obscene. He's always been good at that.

"He's my friend, and not a whore of the baths," Bellonus says. "As for the name of his owner, I know it not, but a long time ago we were friends in Isurium Brigantum, in Britannia, when I was posted there--" the lie comes to him easily, somehow-- "and I saw him the other day, in the forum, having been sold into slavery. And I wished only to spend time with my old friend."

Crassus hmphs. "Friends with a slave? Unthinkable."

"I dare to think it, senator," Bellonus responds, and somehow this makes the man angrier. Friends with a slave who fought him fairly, no less.

"You... irk me, Bellonus," the man says, voice silky-smooth in the arch anger only one's superiors can give. "You have always done so. I will not forget this, and I will see that you do not either."

Crassus leaves, hmphing importantly to himself.

Deomiorix places a concerned arm around him, and at this point, Bellonus leans into it, not caring who else is watching. "Philippos. You're shaking."

True enough, he is, and it is not the cold of the frigidarium doing this to him. "He hates me. He's always hated me, and I would that he had not seen us together, for now he will hurt you in his hatred for me." A vision of Athanasios swims before his eyes again. No.

Deomiorix is warm against him. "He will never find me," he says, confident. "Not without the name of my owners. And do you know how many slaves named Britannicus there are in this town?"

"You need to beware," Bellonus says. "Avoid him. _Please_. For your own sake."

"I'll try," Deomiorix says, sounding puzzled at his insistence.

"We served together in Britannia," Bellonus says. "He outranked me then, as he is above me in class now, but he always hated me. I was a better tactician, I commanded the men better, had their loyalty as he never did, and I'm not even Roman. He hated me. And the other day he challenged me at swords, and I had a fit and bested him, shamefully well, in front of all his friends. He still hates me."

"It will be all right," Deomiorix says, voice soothing, leading him back to the apodyterium. "He can't do anything to you." The same thing Annalis and Macula told him, and he knows it is true. The man can't harm him.

When they are back on the street, Deomiorix observes, just as he'd been waiting for him to, "We didn't know each other in Isurium Brigantum. I am positive I never met a member of the Roman envoy." The way he says this is strange, oddly hopeful.

Bellonus shrugs. "And I don't remember meeting anyone with your name, but it could have been true, couldn't it?"

"I wish it were," says Deomiorix, in the same odd tone, but Bellonus has no time to ask about it before they are back at the brothel.

"Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon," he says.

Deomiorix smiles broadly, daring to come closer, to embrace him. "I thank you as well."

"I will come back to see you," Bellonus says as he wraps his arms around the man, "for whatever ridiculous sum your owners will have me pay for the privilege."

Deomiorix smiles, still tentative, as they break apart. "I look forward to that."

"Be well, Deomiorix."

"Be well, Philippos," Deomiorix replies, then disappears within the brothel.

On the crowded street, Bellonus almost thinks he sees someone who looks like Crassus, watching him. But it couldn't be, could it? He is seeing things, jumping at shadows. The man would not have followed him. He is being mad again.

* * *

For all that he's seen Deomiorix that day, his dreams are all nightmares about Crassus, all of them so horribly plausible that he can't distinguish dream from reality. He suspects they might all be reality.

_Crassus is the new tribunus laticlavius, second in command only to Cerialis, and Bellonus is only a praefectus cohortis, commanding a cohort of auxiliaries. Hardly in any position to question the man's orders, even if he has been in the army four years by the time the man gets there; Bellonus is twenty now._

_Nonetheless, everything he does upsets the man. The first time he realises this is when his cohort takes the least losses, in one battle, following his changing tactics to account for the situation; Crassus' orders were unyielding to the reality of the situation, and Bellonus puts his men's lives above that. Afterwards the man calls him to his tent to rebuke him for changing orders._

_"But, sir, they would have died--"_

_"You failed to follow my orders," the man says, lounging almost imperiously at his desk, safe from the realities of the battle. "I'll keep an eye on you, Bellonus."_

_Bellonus is covered with mud from the field; he had to go down there in the thick of fighting, after all, and this is what he gets? A rebuke? Everything since then is worse, for all that his cohort loves him more, seeing that they have a commander with sense._

Another flash of memory:

_Crassus is sneering at him. "Your cohort is loyal to you, Greek."_

_Bellonus, confused, can't figure out why this would be a term of abuse. "Sir, I am pleased to command their respect."_

_"Don't make them like the Sacred Band, eh?" he says, lip curled, a neat slur on his nationality and sexual habits at once, worse because it is half-true. Not that he's sleeping with any of his cohort, but he's hardly celibate, and for a few weeks now has been with Athanasios, an archer from the auxiliaries, in another cohort, not under his command. Not that this is any of Crassus' business._

_Bellonus says nothing, salutes, and leaves. He knows he will run to Athanasios now, to make himself forget the shame of this._

_They are hardly discreet -- or rather, not discreet enough -- and he thought once, one of the times, he saw someone, perhaps one of Crassus' underlings, watching. But it does not matter, does it? What could happen?_

The next flash of memory, and he knows what is coming, no, no, no:

_He is twenty-one now. Athanasios is holding him in his arms as they sit at the outskirts of the camp, watching the darkness. They've just fought together, a small skirmish here, not even a proper battle, ambushing some of Venutius' men._

_Bellonus laughs and locks his hands over the man's wrists, feeling the pulse in his veins, glad that they are both alive. "You are unharmed, eh, Athanasios?"_

_Athanasios nuzzles him, breath against his ear making him shiver. "A scratch only, Philippos, and if it hasn't taken an infection yet, it won't."_

_"So what shall we do tonight?" He slides one hand down the man's body, along his legs, a caress._

_But Athanasios is shaking his head. "Not tonight, or rather, not yet. I am told Crassus wishes to reward me for my skill in battle. I am to attend him in his tent." Athanasios is poor, not like him -- he could use the money, or the promotion, or whatever the man wishes to give. He's not even a citizen; none of them are, in the auxiliaries. Maybe he's hoping for citizenship eventually._

_Athanasios shifts against him, making to stand up. Clearly he is eager for this meeting. Who wouldn't be?_

_"Well," Bellonus says, turning and kissing him one last time before he leaves, "you can't very well refuse that."_

Thankfully, Bellonus wakes up then, gasping, pathetically grateful that he did not have to dream the rest of it. He knows well enough what happened.

* * *

Unhappily, his affairs keep him away from Deomiorix for the next two days, and by this time he has almost forgotten the upsetting incident of the baths. The next morning he receives another message from a friend of a friend, and rides out far enough from the city that it takes him all day to get there and back. The distance is acceptable; the property, in a disgraceful state of repair, is not.

"No, thank you," Bellonus says politely. "I'd want something I can live in right away."

The owner shrugs. "It's your decision, sir."

So that day is wasted. The next day brings a message from the banker in town he has used, Caecilius, and he heads to the man's house to determine what it is the man has to say about his funds.

The balding man looks up as he enters the atrium. "Ah, Bellonus, good."

"Caecilius," he says, warily, "you sent me a message regarding my funds. My money is safe, yes?" For he has just enough to buy a house and grounds, and support it, without relying on his family; it would not do to have less.

The man blinks at him in confusion. "Safe? Of course. I merely wanted to ask why you chose not to bank the rest of your funds with me. I can offer you--"

Now Bellonus is confused. "The rest? I drew my funds from my last legion--"

And now Caecilius is smiling. "But you did not draw from the other legions?"

"I did as I left them," Bellonus says, "so surely there's nothing else."

"You were not aware that the monetary reward Vespasianus gave your commander Cerialis for helping him was partially passed onto you? It was deposited with your last legion at the time, the--" he checks-- "XIIII Gemina."

"I drew pay as I left them," Bellonus says again. It must have been sent after he left, and somehow they kept it; miscommunications do happen. "Is it sizable?"

"I have taken the liberty of writing to the camp to confirm. It is -- you could buy yourself into senatorship with that and what you have, Bellonus."

He smiles broadly. It is good to have money. Not that he has any interest in becoming a senator, but rather it is good to know that he doesn't have to worry about any of it. "Thank you. I will send them a message myself."

So the rest of his day is taken up with wording that message, asking the money to be sent, sealing it with his signet, finding a reliable courier. With this new money, perhaps he should look more seriously again at the villas with farms, he thinks.

* * *

So it is with some impatience, the next day, in the afternoon, that he finally goes to see Deomiorix again, feeling as though the man has somehow been kept from him.

He puts the usual two sesterces on the desk, and the look the woman gives the money makes it seem as if this amount is somehow disappointing. This is, of course, strange, as it is much more than is written outside Deomiorix' door.

"He's in his cell, sir." She looks as if she wants to tell him something else; she looks concerned, somehow.

"Yes?"

"Be gentle with him, please," the woman says, quietly. "He's had another client, recently, and he didn't take it well. And they won't let us--"

She stops and snaps her mouth shut. Whatever it is, perhaps some unkind word about her masters, she won't say it. Well, he will be gentle.

Bellonus, with great effort, walks at a measured, slow pace down the hallway. A man does not skip with joy, or run quickly, even though he would like to. But he does not stop himself from smiling broadly as he opens the door to see Deomiorix.

"Hail, Deomiorix," he smiles and says to the man, who is sitting bolt-upright in the middle of the bed, and does not rise to meet him. Is he angry with him, somehow?

"Hail, Philippos," Deomiorix returns. The smile he gives him is more like a grimace, he still does not move, does not stand, and that is when Bellonus knows that something is very wrong.

He rushes to the man's side. "What is the matter? Are you injured?"

Deomiorix hisses through his teeth. "It is nothing."

"Your back," he realises. That's why Deomiorix has not moved, has not embraced him. "Let me see it."

Deomiorix stands, slowly, exhaling heavy, pained breaths as he moves, and turns, and Bellonus can see reddish-brown stains already spreading through the fabric of the tunic he bought him. No. No, no, no.

"I'm afraid I've ruined your new tunic," Deomiorix gasps out.

"I care not for the tunic. I will buy you another," he says, instantly. "Take it off; let me see your back."

As Deomiorix, every movement clearly hurting him more and more, slips off his belt and then the tunic, Bellonus watches in mounting horror. His back is bruised from sticks, it looks like, and atop that, even worse, long, bleeding slashes, like the marks of a whip, or even the cuts of a sword or dagger. The cuts have not healed over yet, and blood seeps slowly down his back. Bellonus has seen this before. _Not again_, he thinks. _Please, please, let this not be happening_.

"What did you do to displease your owners so?" he asks. The words out of his mouth are almost rude, curt, covering his own fear. It had better be his owners. The wounds look so much like--

Deomiorix shakes his head. "Not my owners, Philippos. This was paid for. Someone paid to do this. This morning, actually."

Bellonus feels a sick feeling in his stomach. He knows exactly who is behind this, now, even if Deomiorix won't say. "Put your tunic back on. I'm taking you to a physician. The best one I can find."

Deomiorix turns. "But I cannot leave for the day." They were going to keep him servicing men, like this?

"I'll pay them whatever they want," Bellonus says, "but I am taking you out of here to a physician. If infection sets in--" Then it will be like poor Athanasios all over again.

The woman at the desk calls out as he walks past with Deomiorix. "You cannot leave with him. They -- the owners won't let us leave when it's not our free day, sir. We'll get him treated, later." She looks indecisive, as if she didn't want to have to say that. She probably cares for his well-being, of course.

"This man has to see a physician." Bellonus puts a whole denarius on the desk. "Tell them I'm paying extra for the privilege of taking him out. Tell them you tried to stop me and couldn't. Tell them whatever you have to tell them, but he has to get help now."

The woman nods, relieved that this is no longer her burden. "I will. And -- thank you for taking care of Britannicus. He needs it."

Deomiorix smiles weakly at that, raising his head, adding, "Told you he was a good one, didn't I?" in her direction, before Bellonus pulls him outside.

* * *

"Now," Bellonus says in the street. "Where is a good physician?"

Deomiorix is walking slowly, every step hurting him. "This way. Not too far." He laughs a little and it sounds like a cry of pain. "Atto -- the boy in the cell next to mine -- told me to go to an astrologer. I can afford that."

"I'm paying," Bellonus says, "and not for an astrologer to rub dead mice in the wounds, either."

The physician is curt, but knowledgeable, cleaning the wounds, giving him a salve to promote healing and recommending clean bandages, changed frequently.

"In my experience," the man says, "this will probably not take an infection, unless something infected or dirty made the cuts."

"It was a dagger, mostly," Deomiorix volunteers from the table, as the man is bandaging him. "It looked clean enough."

Bellonus tries as hard as he can to keep from picturing the scene. "So he will be all right?"

"He will," says the physician. "Don't beat him so hard next time, eh?"

"I shan't," Bellonus promises. Easier than correcting the man's misapprehension.

* * *

"Thank you," Deomiorix says, once they've returned to his cell with a supply of salve and bandages, along with promises from the woman at the front and several of the other prostitutes that they will help him change them. Deomiorix is popular among them, it seems, and that pleases him. His movement seem less pained, and Bellonus vows to make offerings, anything, that would make him get better. He cannot die. "There is no way I can repay you, except--"

He knows Deomiorix is going to offer him his body. "You're hurt. It can wait. You can repay me by telling me about the man who did this to you." Maybe it wasn't Crassus. Maybe it was someone else. He's jumping to conclusions, of course. How would Crassus have found him?

Deomiorix smiles in a way that suggests nothing is at all funny. "We cannot reveal the names of our clients."

"Tell me what he did, then."

"He paid," Deomiorix says, exhaling hard. "More than all of us make in a day combined. If they pay enough, my owners will let them harm us, but they never really harm us, you know? It is usually the men who want to shackle us, slap us a little, have us cower in fear, pretend that we are afraid, but all as a game. Or sometimes the other way around. I thought that was what it would be. No harm in that one."

"So you went?"

Deomiorix looks at him as if he is an idiot. "I'm a _slave_, Philippos. I would have had to anyway. But he paid, and he brought two strong men to hold me down, and -- he beat me. The stick first, and when I didn't cry out, a whip, and then when I didn't cry out, a dagger. I think Cra--" he stops, suddenly.

It was Crassus. Oh no. No, no, no, no. He found him. "Crassus found you," Bellonus says, dully. "And tortured you. Did he -- did he rape you too?"

Deomiorix is shaking his head. "I wish it had been that. I could have dealt with that. He -- I have seen a lot of things, Philippos, but he is _sick_. He kept cutting into me, this way and that, asking if you liked my back, if you thought I was pretty, asking how I thought you'd like me now. I think he wanted me to beg him, or scream, or cry."

"You didn't?"

"Not then," Deomiorix says, voice as raw as his back. "Not until he started cutting deeper with the dagger, telling me how much he enjoyed it when he'd done this to someone else, some Greek -- I wasn't really paying attention to the name--"

"Athanasios," Bellonus says, knowing what is coming.

Deomiorix nods. "He asked what you'd think, said he wouldn't mind me dying of infection just like that. He said no one would care or mind, and he would do whatever he could to hurt you, twisted the dagger deeper. And then I think I screamed. And, oh, Philippos, he is sick, he is mad -- he didn't even touch me, but he came when I screamed."

"He is a furcifer," Bellonus says, feeling his body tense in anger, not caring who hears it. It's a dangerous word to use about a senator. Cross-bearer. One who should carry his own cross and then be nailed atop it. "I would that he were punished; he's done it to others, he's told you as much--"

But Deomiorix is shaking his head. "I won't testify." Bellonus knows exactly why. A slave's testimony is only valid under torture. "No matter who this Athanasios was."

"He was an archer, a Syrian, in one of the auxiliaries serving with us in VIIII Hispana," Bellonus says, after some time. All perfectly true facts. "And my lover."

"Oh." Deomiorix' face changes.

"Crassus always hated me, but I didn't know how much. He must have seen us together. We'd been in a skirmish one day; it was nothing special, really. And Athanasios told me Crassus had asked him to attend him, promising a reward. I had to come to his tent later, to pass on some message or other, and I saw Athanasios still there--"

Suddenly, he is lost in the memory.

_He is in Crassus' tent, and he can see Athanasios is still there, seated nervously in a chair. Why should he still be there? It shouldn't have taken that long. Something is wrong about this._

_"Thank you for the message," Crassus says. "You may go."_

_Athanasios' mouth moves, forms silent words. _Help me_. His eyes are wide with terror._

_"Sir," Bellonus says. "I had been hoping to talk to Athanasios there as well, if you're done with him--" It is as much as he dares say._

_"I'm not done with him. I've hardly begun. Leave now." Crassus sneers. "Don't think I haven't seen you getting fucked by him, pervert of a Greek. I know what you get up to. If you don't leave, I'll have it called around the camp. Cinaedus."_

_Bellonus can feel himself grow pale. He _knows_._

_"How well do you think your men will respect you if they know you're a cinaedus? Could ruin a man's career, eh? _Leave_. Now, Bellonus."_

_Bellonus turns and runs into the dark, a coward, abandoning Athanasios to his fate--_

Deomiorix' hand on his brings him out of it. "It's all right. It's a memory. It's not now."

"But it will be now again," Bellonus spits out, "if Crassus has anything to say about it. Athanasios took ill and died, an infection. The story was, of course, that it was wounds from the skirmish, very sad. But I saw his body, and the wounds that were infected were wounds he never had when I saw him, never got in battle. They looked -- like yours. And it would have been my word against Crassus', and he threatened to have... horrible things... said about me. You -- you have to get away from him. Please. He will kill you just to hurt me."

Deomiorix laughs at that, and even laughter makes the man wince in pain. "Philippos, there's nothing I can do. I am a slave. I do as I am bid. If he comes back and pays to do this again, I must do it again. Or my owners will beat me. I have no choice."

"I'll buy you," Bellonus says. "He can't hurt you if you're not here. If you belong to someone else." It is the perfect idea. "I'm leaving the army anyway," he says, not knowing until the words come out of his mouth that that was the decision all along. "I can afford a farm; I can certainly afford whatever your owners would want for you. We can settle in the countryside together."

Deomiorix' mouth twists, and his eyes flash with anger. "No. I refuse."

"But -- why?" It is perfect. They can be together; Deomiorix will be safe.

"You called me _friend_," Deomiorix says, angrily. "If I am your slave, I cannot be your friend. I will always be subject to you."

He is mad; why is he acting like this? "I will manumit you, of course," Bellonus says. "Wait -- how old are you?"

"I've just turned twenty-nine," Deomiorix says. So he was right about the man's age; a year younger than him. That's not so bad.

"So you will only be my slave for the rest of that year, until you are thirty." He knows the law well enough. "Then I can free you, and I will, of course--"

"No!" Deomiorix says again, almost yelling. "I would rather be another's slave, a whore, and get on my knees for others a thousand times out of duty, than to be your slave and have to do the same for you, all the while with you calling me a friend. That is not friendship."

"You--" He can barely get the words out; why is this all going wrong? "You wouldn't have to; I wouldn't force you."

"No," Deomiorix says, "you'd want me to want to of my own free will. Which I wouldn't have any of, being a slave. But you would pretend I did, just to make yourself feel better. Can you not see the difference?"

Bellonus can't find the right words to say. "Then I would promise not to touch you, until you are freed and can decide for yourself--"

"A libertus is never truly free either," Deomiorix says, still in anger, his voice rough. "Showing up at your door every morning, as your client, paying my respects, begging for handouts like some pet, as scraps are thrown to dogs? I would always be subservient to you."

It doesn't make any sense; this is how the world works. What does the man want, freeborn equestrian citizenship? He can't give him that. "I care about you," Bellonus says back, voice rising to match. "I want you to be free from danger."

"And I am telling you," Deomiorix says, quieter now, "that I would rather be any other's slave than yours, if we are to continue in this -- relationship. I am less than you, yes, but I would rather not be beneath you. I can see that it does not matter to you, but it matters very much to me. Even if I am endangered."

Stubborn, stubborn Celt. Why does he have to care so much if Bellonus owns him? Can't he see it's his life in danger?

"Don't let the wounds get infected," Bellonus says, curtly, then turns and leaves. It isn't what he wanted to say. But it's the best he can do.

* * *

Bellonus isn't really sure what he does, after that. He goes home, and eats dinner, and makes all the appropriate remarks to his cousin on the couches, but his mind just isn't there. How can Deomiorix behave so? How can he not see the danger he is in?

His dreams that night are again horrible, and he sits awake half the night, lack of sleep being preferable to seeing blood-drenched fields.

He is irritable and visits none of his friends, instead going the baths alone and going home alone, and in this manner days pass. It is as if he is in a daze of some sort. He knows he ought to see Deomiorix, to make sure he is all right, but he cannot bring himself to, when the man cannot see reason.

He knows his cousin is worried about him. He knows Felix is worried about him, even. His _slave_. His mouth twists.

"Felix?" he calls out abruptly, in the atrium.

Felix appears, looking happy at this sign of life. "Yes, _domine_?" Deomiorix' words come back to him: _I would always be subservient to you._

"Are you happy being my slave?"

Felix looks uncertain, knowing that the question is important but not knowing how. "I am, _domine_."

"That is good," he says. Felix is happy. But Deomiorix will not be. Would not be. He has said.

"Is there anything you require?" Felix is still standing there.

"No, thank you." He waves him away. "That was all."

* * *

That night Annalis and Macula host a dinner party, raucous, with fine slave-girls serving them all food. Atellus is there again too, and he says he has another friend, this time selling property that would seem to meet all his requirements. Bellonus can't bring himself to care.

Bellonus takes this as an opportunity to get incredibly drunk, and is on his fourth -- fifth? -- cup of wine, not watered enough, when Murena pulls him aside.

"Make up with her, Philippos," Murena says, grabbing his arm hard enough to bruise.

The words, filtered through the haze of drink, make little sense. "Eh?"

"I don't know who she is, friend," Murena says, "but you look as though your lover is quarrelling with you, and you're not taking it well. Please. Talk to her. For the sake of the rest of us. It'll save some wine for the rest of us to drink at least, eh?"

Bellonus snorts at that. Him? In love? Deomiorix is prideful, stubborn, idealistic at the expense of his own safety -- no. He couldn't be in love with him.

"You're wrong," he informs Murena, very sure of himself, as he takes another cup of wine. "I'm not in love."

Murena shrugs. "Be that as it may, you're still drinking all the wine."

* * *

His bed in his cubiculum that night feels strangely empty, for all that he is only ever alone in it. The next morning he is miserable, with a pounding head, and he can't seem to find the scroll he was reading in the atrium. What he finds is poetry. Very well, poetry, then. Better than just the headache.

The scroll rolls open to a poem of Catullus' he hasn't seen in a while. A poem on the death of the poet's brother. Bellonus' mouth quirks. Everyone knows what else "brother" means. He and Athanasios called each other it often enough.

He reads it and is struck with grief. The last line hits him, like a blow, just under the ribs, hard and unexpected.

_Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale._

He reads the words aloud, slowly. "And for ever, O my brother, hail and farewell."

He imagines Deomiorix, dead. He could be dead, for all he knows. Is this what he wants? Grief, and only sad memories?

No, no, he was wrong. He may not understand the man, but having Deomiorix -- loving Deomiorix -- on his terms is better than nothing. He'll take it. He'll do it. Whatever will make him happy.

He gets up, then, leaving the scroll on the table. He'll go see him. Now. Before it's too late.

* * *

In his hurry, by the time Bellonus arrives there, he realises he has entirely forgotten to eat, and breakfast was a long time ago. On impulse, he buys lunch from one of the street vendors. Roast dormice on a skewer, covered in honey. A delicacy. He buys three, and the vendor wraps them for him to take, as it's more than one person can comfortably eat. Perhaps Deomiorix is hungry.

The woman at the desk at the brothel seems surprised. "There you are, sir; I thought you'd forgotten us, having been away so long. Britannicus is available."

Available. Not "dead." Available. He's not too late, then. He breathes out in relief and sets the usual sum on the counter. "I'll see him now, please. He's all right?"

"He's all right," the woman says. "He's getting better. I think he's been missing you -- I overheard him telling one of the new boys about you -- but he wouldn't say so directly, of course."

"Thank you," Bellonus says, and means it.

She sweeps the coins neatly into her palm. "You're very welcome. He's in his cell."

* * *

Bellonus practically runs down the corridor. He stops at the appropriate room and can see, through the edge of the curtain, the man kneeling on the floor next to a bowl of water, rinsing his mouth out. Bellonus nudges at the curtain and inside Deomiorix freezes at the sound of cloth rustling, head gone up, a strange resigned expression on his face. Bellonus fancies he can tell what the man is thinking: _Another one_. Inside, Deomiorix' face reforms, set into the alluring gaze he must give everyone. He touches his head as a cinaedus does, rises with false, effeminate grace layered over the true one.

Impatient now with watching, Bellonus pushes aside the curtain and enters.

"I'm sorry," Bellonus says, before Deomiorix even registers who it is. "I may not understand, but I know that I've been a fool, and I've missed you. I'd rather see you here than not at all." His voice is raw. He knows this is not what one says to a slave, ever, but he cares for Deomiorix more than he cares for his pride.

Deomiorix beckons him closer, a smile beginning to brighten his face. "I thought you'd never come back. I feared I'd asked too much; I have been the fool, not you."

"I should have come back long before," Bellonus says, and as he shuts the curtain Deomiorix wraps his arms around him, holding him, and somehow he knows it's all right. "But I was too prideful. You're all right? You're healing?"

Deomiorix nods against him, and they stand there in silence, holding each other. Bellonus gingerly clasps the man's shoulders, not willing to dare touching his back.

"As long as I keep my tunic on," he says, raising an eyebrow, "I'm still getting work. But it's healing."

"Can I see?" Bellonus asks, tentatively.

Deomiorix nods and steps back, pulling off his tunic -- his old tunic -- and turning around. "I can't see it myself without a mirror, but I'm told it looks better."

His back is nothing like it was nearly a week ago, nothing like Bellonus' nightmares. The bruising is all gone; the only thing left is the cuts, and to his eye, they look to be healing nicely. He touches one, lightly. It is not warm. No infection.

"It looks much better," Bellonus says, as Deomiorix turns back around, slipping the tunic back on. He's going to be all right. He'll live. It will be different now. He isn't going to be another Athanasios.

An almost shy smile from Deomiorix. "The salve helped."

That makes him remember what he's brought. "Here," he says, holding out the bundle of lunch. "Are you hungry? I haven't eaten either."

Deomiorix looks at the food as a starving man does. "You didn't need to--"

"I wanted to," says Bellonus. "And one of those is my meal, so don't go acting like I'm giving you undeserved riches."

"You want to pay to feed a whore, that's your business." Deomiorix gives him another one of those looks that suggest he's insane. Bellonus only grins back.

* * *

Somehow Deomiorix gets him out of the toga, if not the tunic, and they sit contentedly on the bed picking the food off of its skewers. They are eating upright, not like he ought to eat, but like Deomiorix probably does eat. No triclinium for him.

"This is delicious," Deomiorix says, mouth full.

Bellonus is just finishing his one skewer, and he grins to see that Deomiorix, ravenous, is halfway through the second. "Your clients don't bring you food, eh?"

Deomiorix pauses, then chuckles. "A few of them have. The last one wanted to watch me eat roast dove while he--" he makes an evocative, obscene gesture at his waist, not bothering to finish the sentence.

The gesture is graceful and entirely, deeply erotic. Bellonus feels his mouth go dry, and he can't seem to stop staring. If Deomiorix could -- but he can't. He is incapable. He has said as much. But the man with his hand on himself, or Bellonus there, helping--

Deomiorix laughs to see the look on his face. "You'd be interested too, Philippos? Go ahead; I'll eat slower."

"No," Bellonus says. "I was just thinking, if _you_ could, I would -- I would watch that. And I would -- but you cannot."

Deomiorix finishes the rest of the skewer. The look on his face is odd. "Tell me, Philippos. If I could, what would you wish?"

"I would look at you, first," he says, bold enough to speak his desires. "For you are lovely. And if you were to touch yourself, why that would be lovely as well, and if you wanted me to aid you, I'd touch you wherever you wanted. And I'd very much like to--" his voice breaks, he knows he cannot have this-- "I'd kiss you. A thousand times, as the poem says, and a hundred, and another thousand. If it would please you."

Deomiorix' eyes have gone wide and dark, with barely any green visible at the edges. His lips are parted and the look on his face is amazed, brilliant. "I think," he whispers, "perhaps I could after all. "

Bellonus can feel himself smiling back.

The next few minutes are a tangle of belts and tunics and sandals, until they are both naked, sitting next to each other. Deomiorix is just as beautiful as always, more so now that he can take pleasure in it. He looks down at his cock, half-erect already and growing more so.

"What have you done to me?" he asks, still looking down at himself. They heal each other, somehow, the two of them. "I haven't been able to--"

The question is unanswerable, and so Bellonus leans over and kisses him. Deomiorix' mouth opens against his, sweet with honey. It is wondrous, like a dream, except it is beautifully real. Deomiorix groans into his mouth, and he can feel the man's arms go around him, drawing him nearer. Good.

They break apart, and Deomiorix laughs joyfully. His face is the most beautiful sight Bellonus has ever seen.

"That was one," Deomiorix says. "Where's the rest?"

Bellonus kisses him again, lightly. "I think you're going to lose count."

"I think they lost count in the poem, too," Deomiorix counters. He's read that? How is it a Celt knows poetry? But the question is less important now, shoved aside in favour of other, more intriguing concerns, like the way Deomiorix tastes.

They kiss, again and again and again, until Bellonus at least has lost count and Deomiorix' breaths have all turned to gasps. Deomiorix' hand locks on his wrist, guides it down to his cock.

"Touch me," Deomiorix breathes. "Please."

Bellonus wraps his hand around the length of him, Deomiorix' hand on top of his, and both of them together stroke him.

"Like that?"

Deomiorix only groans. "Yes, just like that--"

His eyes fall shut in pleasure, and Bellonus watches their hands together, moving along the length of his cock. Deomiorix arches and sighs and moans, and his hand on Bellonus' urges him to move tighter, faster, and so he does.

Deomiorix is close now, gasping, and impulsively Bellonus leans in and kisses him again. Deomiorix groans out something he can't quite make out, Celtic, into his mouth, and comes, shaking, over both their hands. He leans, boneless, against Bellonus, who holds him, caresses him as he quivers.

"Thank you," he is whispering, over and over. "Thank you so much."

Bellonus kisses him again. "Going to tell me you do that with all your clients?"

Deomiorix laughs. "Every last one."

"Just what I thought--" he starts to say, and then gasps as Deomiorix drops his head into his lap, puts his mouth around his cock.

After that he can't think of too much to say, falling back onto the bed. He's sure he's saying something, words tripping out of his mouth -- "you're beautiful," probably, or "keep doing that," but he can't quite focus on that. He could be saying them in Greek, for all he cares.

Deomiorix' mouth is warm and skilled, just like the other times, but he knows now that Deomiorix is enjoying it. He can see it in the way Deomiorix looks at him, the way he licks up the length of him and pauses and _smiles_, and oh, that smile. Deomiorix barely puts his mouth back on him and it's exactly right, like something so wonderful, like something else he can't quite remember, and then he's coming, Deomiorix still surrounding him, a world full of stars--

"Come up here," he says, when he can finally speak again, and tugs Deomiorix up to lie beside him on the narrow bed. They smile foolishly, happily at each other, and when they kiss Deomiorix tastes mostly like him.

"Thank you," Deomiorix says again. His voice is so full of wonder and gratitude that Bellonus hardly knows what to say, and if they lie here any longer no doubt he will start saying foolish things about his feelings, or perhaps even worse, his other desires, still forbidden.

"Shall I return again?" he asks, the only safe thing he can say.

Deomiorix chuckles against him. "As far as I'm concerned, never leave."

"I wish I could," he says, then stops. Deomiorix does not want to be bought. "But I think our time is probably up."

They dress, laughing and touching and each helping the other. As lovers do. Not that he dares say that word, either.

"Be well," Deomiorix says.

"Be well," Bellonus replies, and kisses him one more time before leaving. It was hardly close to a thousand, but they will have more chances next time.

* * *

Smiling, he heads to the forum baths afterward, bypassing the palaestra. He's had exercise enough.

In the tepidarium, a horribly familiar voice calls out, and his blood runs cold.

"Bellonus!" Crassus says.

"Hail, Crassus," Bellonus returns, as Crassus slides uncomfortably close to him on the bench. Bellonus imagines his hands around Crassus' fat throat. He could do it. It would be easy.

"I found your Celt friend, the slave," Crassus says, smiling a smug smile at him. "It turns out he is a whore after all. But I'm sure you knew that, didn't you?"

Bellonus says nothing. The man is only taunting him. Deomiorix has recovered. There is nothing to fear. Crassus thinks he can intimidate him. The man has no power over him.

"He's a pretty one, isn't he?" Crassus continues, and the expression on his face shifts, lecherous. "He was much less pretty when I was done with him."

Bellonus forces himself to smile, showing his teeth. A nasty, predatory grin. "He's fine, actually. He's healing well. If you expected him to be another Athanasios, you're wrong."

"I'm not sure I remember that name," Crassus pretends. "Oh, yes, your lover. Terrible tragedy, wasn't it? Died of his wounds from a battle."

"What you did to him was the tragedy," Bellonus says, gritted through closed teeth.

Crassus waves a hand. "No one cares about a poor Syrian archer. No one cares about a Celt whore. Except you, the one getting fucked by them, eh, _cinaede_? Weakling. You're softer than rabbit fur. Passive. Again, how would you like that to get out?"

Crassus obviously expects the insults to sting, to frighten him, as they made him abandon Athanasios. He is no longer young, no longer afraid. And it isn't even true, in regards to Deomiorix. Yet.

Bellonus laughs. "Go ahead. Tell me, if you call me a cinaedus, who will care?"

Crassus blinks. "What?" He'd obviously expected another response.

"I'm leaving the army," Bellonus says. "There will be no cohort to distrust me. You could tell my family, but they do not care for me. You could tell my friends, but they would not believe you. You could tell strangers -- but I don't act as a cinaedus does, and as long as I am not skipping about loose-belted in public, effeminate, I bring no shame upon myself. I do not think you would win a case."

He ignores the voice telling him the acts themselves are shameful, the voice that has stopped him telling Deomiorix at all. This is a battle he must win.

Crassus glares at him.

"I am sorry," he says, "for however it is that my life has managed to offend you so deeply. But do not think you can frighten me into not living it."

He rises and moves on to the caldarium, leaving the confused Crassus behind him.

Perhaps this will be the end of it. The man's tried insulting him, and after all, he has nothing else that Crassus could want. Hurting Athanasios was about his envy for Bellonus' skill in battle. Hurting Deomiorix was about revenge for the embarrassment in the palaestra. What else is there? The man has obtained his twisted satisfaction, and after all, he is a senator and Bellonus only an equestrian. There is nothing else for the man to envy about him.

Now he had really better buy land.

* * *

His cousin looks more pleased over dinner, to see Bellonus acting happier. He is happy, he thinks. Why shouldn't he be? He has Deomiorix, as much as the man will let him; he has nothing to fear from Crassus any longer. Life is good.

He has no nightmares that night, and he dreams of Deomiorix holding him as they lie together in a field at night. It is strange, but it pleases him.

The next several days keep him away from Deomiorix, on business. He goes to visit a few farms, one each day, and is pleased by none of them. He goes to Caecilius, to check on his funds; he has had no word yet from the legion, nor does he expect a reply for a few more days yet. It was good of Cerialis to be so generous with him; it is one of the many reasons he has followed the man across half the empire. He spends another morning visiting with Atellus; it turns out the man whose farm he wished Bellonus to see at the last party will not be back in town for another few days, and so he must wait.

He attends another party of Murena's that night, and all he can think of is -- tomorrow. Tomorrow he will finally have the time to go see Deomiorix again. His heart aches strangely when he thinks about the man; he feels the lack of him. Even at dinner, reclining on the couch, he wishes Deomiorix and not Murena could be the man next to him. It is a mad wish. Only the free recline while eating. It is, in fact, how one can free a slave -- ask them to recline with you. He tried it with Felix. Twice.

"Did she come around after all?" Murena asks, as a platter of venison is held out by the servants.

"Hmm?" Bellonus is only on his first cup of wine, but the sentence doesn't make sense.

"Never mind," Murena says, laughing. "I can see that she did. You, friend, are happily in love, eh?"

"I am not," says Bellonus, instantly.

"You're smiling," Murena points out. "You only smile like that when you're either in battle or after some woman." Or man, but he's been so careful to keep that from his friends. They'd never believe he was a cinaedus, even if Crassus told them.

"I am not smiling," Bellonus insists, but he can't keep his lips from twitching when he pictures Deomiorix' face.

* * *

The next morning he wakes, smiling. He will go see Deomiorix, finally. He dresses, takes breakfast, compliments Felix for no particular reason, and walks out the door, still smiling.

The woman at the brothel smiles to see him too, as he lays down the usual two sesterces.

"He's free," she says, smiling. He's probably one of the least popular men here, to judge by how he's always free. At this moment, Bellonus is thankful for that.

Bellonus lets himself run down the corridor to Deomiorix' cell, and he has a feeling Deomiorix knows it's him, too, because he's already smiling when Bellonus pulls back the curtain.

They embrace for a long time, just kissing, standing there in the middle of the room. Finally Deomiorix breaks away, takes him by the hand, leads him toward the bed.

"What did you want to do?" Deomiorix asks, laughing, smiling. "Anything you want. I can do it. I am capable."

Anything he wants. Bellonus thinks of what he wants. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He can't have that. He can't ask for it.

"That is good to hear," he says instead, smiling.

"There's something you want," Deomiorix says, suddenly, and Bellonus freezes, every muscle gone rigid. Deomiorix, in contrast, is relaxing on the bed, loose-limbed, far too casual, his half-lidded gaze penetrating. Knowing. He knows.

Bellonus dares not even breathe as Deomiorix continues, voice soft, almost as if he's trying to reassure him. "There's something you haven't asked for. I can see it in your body, in the way you look at me. You're afraid to ask."

Bellonus licks his lips and tries to swallow. His dry tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. He remembers this feeling. It's how he felt at seventeen, in his first proper battle. His horse, already skittish and growing more so with every nervous twitch of his calves, danced under him as he rode behind the long line of the shield-wall, waiting for the Iceni to strike. But then he was brave, acting with honour, as befitted a soldier. What he wants now befits no one he can ever be. He wishes Deomiorix weren't intelligent, weren't perceptive, weren't anything that would lead him to this.

"I wanted to say that I'll do it."

Bellonus finally finds words. "You don't even know what it is," he says, cursing himself as soon as the words leave his lips. He hadn't meant to confirm anything. He meant to deny it.

"I don't need to know." Deomiorix smiles at him then, a real smile. The tenderness in his eyes nearly undoes Bellonus. What has he done to earn this? "Whatever it is, I'll do it. I won't tell anyone. Not even any of the other prostitutes." Deomiorix pauses, frowns. "Unless of course you want something involving them. I can recommend several discreet men. Or women. Or boys. Or sheep."

The last possibility is tossed off offhandedly, as if Deomiorix means to make him laugh. It almost makes him laugh, but not for the reason Deomiorix wants.

If he'd wanted boys -- or possibly even sheep -- it would be well within the realm of normal. Men probably show up every day demanding nubile young Aethiops to beat and then rape, or rape and then beat, or both at the same time. An impropriety, yes, but a natural extension of the finest Roman virtue. Take. Conquer. Force.

What he wants is an absolute perversion. He is a citizen. More, he is a member of the equestrian order. His body is inviolate. He shouldn't want this. He shouldn't. He does. He's only dared do it a few times on campaign -- anonymous locals, mostly. Celts. Germani. Never Romans. Never his own men. Never anyone who would know. Not even Athanasios was safe.

"No," he says, finally, aware that Deomiorix wants an answer. "No one else. Just you."

Deomiorix nods matter-of-factly. "Whips? Chains? As you know, my owners would prefer you not brand or permanently damage me, but--"

"No." Bellonus remembers the long angry wounds down Deomiorix' back -- can that only have been a few short weeks ago? -- and feels sick at the very thought, throat tightening in revulsion. "Never that."

Deomiorix is regarding him now in out-and-out confusion. "Then what in the world can it possibly be? Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."

"I want--" The words stick in Bellonus' throat. He can't say it.

Deomiorix sits up, a sudden, intense movement, done with all the grace of his best men, the best soldiers, and his gaze locks with Bellonus'. "I'll do it for free." The offer is outrageous, and Bellonus laughs even though there's nothing funny about it.

"Don't think your owners would approve," Bellonus points out mildly. The man can't possibly want to. It's already his _job_ to bed people.

Deomiorix waves a hand, uncaring, dismissive. "I have a few hours of my own time; you've seen me. They can't tell me what to do with it. And I -- I like you. I care for you, Philippos."

Bellonus doesn't know whether that makes it better or worse. "Deomiorix, I can't even say it."

"Draw it, then." He tilts his head at the wall where a few other lurid drawings already reside. "It would liven the place up, I'm certain. Or you could write it."

Bellonus feels himself squint in confusion. His vision narrows. "You can read?" Unusual for a Celt, certainly. But he already knew Deomiorix was unusual.

Deomiorix nods as if such a thing is perfectly normal. "Of course, if it's not the sort of thing you'd want the other patrons to know about at all, we're back to talking."

He can't say it in Latin. All the words are too crude, too direct. He thinks perhaps he can say it in Greek, the language of his childhood, couch it in euphemism and toponym. There's no way that a Celt knows Greek, so it isn't as if Deomiorix will understand. But at least he'll have said it.

Bellonus squeezes his eyes shut and forces the words out, barely above a whisper. "_Thelôn lesbiazô_."

He waits one breath, two, and then feels the warm press of a hand covering his own. He waits for it to crush, censure. Nothing happens. Deomiorix probably hasn't understood, or even heard. He opens his eyes, and Deomiorix is smiling.

"Is that all it is?" Deomiorix asks, gently, in perfect Greek.

Bellonus takes refuge in his astonishment. "If you can speak Greek and Latin, and read and write both, I suppose--" he waits for Deomiorix' nod and is not particularly surprised to see it, even though that, more than the rest, marks him as the strangest of strange -- "what are you doing in a place like this? You should be raising someone's children. You should be a scribe. Anything."

The noise Deomiorix makes can only be described as a snort, as he goes with the change of subject. He starts by answering the question Bellonus didn't even ask. "First off, even if I didn't know Greek I'd certainly know the word anyway. People are asking for it often enough, though this is the first time someone's wanted it the other way round, I have to say. Though they wouldn't have come to me for it, because, well--" He gestures at himself. His impotence, of course, would have made it impossible.

Bellonus feels his face grow hot, even though there is nothing condemnatory in Deomiorix' tone.

"Second," Deomiorix continues, looking away from him now, off in the distance, pulling his hand away, "when the slave-dealer asks you what your skills are, so he can fill out your board and set a price, you don't get a skilled position if you insult his hygiene and personal sexual habits and then blind the nearest guard. You just get your face broken." He holds his hand up to his shattered cheekbone, fingers not quite touching it. "And having acted up and with no listed skills, whore is really the very best thing I could have been bought for. Could have been much worse. Could have been the mines." The mines are a death sentence.

"Oh." That would do it, all right. If the wisdom and rightness of an action could be measured objectively, such behaviour would be unwise. But Bellonus can't bring himself to say so. It's what he would have done, he thinks. He would have fought too. Resisted. They are not so different. It's the most Deomiorix has told him about his past; he knows the man won't explain how he came to learn to read and write, anyway.

Deomiorix reaches his hand out again, covers Bellonus' fingers with his own. His hand is warm. "Don't be ashamed of what you want, Philippos. There is no shame in it."

It is silly to be telling this to Deomiorix, of all people, a whore, who acts as a cinaedus and has done this very thing to thousands of men. To him, even. And yet the man is sympathetic.

The words come spilling out of him now, in Latin, this time. "I want to--" he chokes out. "I want to please you. I want to take your cock into my body, into my _mouth_, and I shouldn't want this, I'm not supposed to, it is shameful--" And it is fine to pay whores for it, to have slaves suck you off, but he is an equestrian. He _can't_ do this. There's more shame in it than getting fucked; even Crassus never called him a _fellator_.

Deomiorix' hand moves up his arm, to his shoulder, and now the man is holding him closer. "It is only a thing, neither bad nor good itself," he says, quietly, as his hand curls into Bellonus' hair. "I won't lie; there have been men who have bought me and fucked my mouth because they wanted to hurt me, to make themselves feel stronger. But it doesn't have to be shameful. Do you think I felt ashamed, the last time?"

He remembers the smile on Deomiorix' face, the way he looked at him. "No."

"Then how can it hurt anyone? How is there any more shame in this than wanting to bring pleasure to me any other way? It is a thing that can be done rightly as well." Bellonus feels movement as Deomiorix shakes his head. "I've never understood that about your people." The Greeks? The Romans? Both, really.

Bellonus takes a deep, shuddering breath. "So, you'll -- you'll let me?" The man has not laughed, or mocked him, or threatened to blackmail him.

"Gladly," Deomiorix says, and Bellonus sits up and kisses him, still a little shaky. "I'm very fond of the idea," he says, between kisses. "I didn't think you would ever want to. I know how your people regard it."

"I want to. I've wanted to since I came here, but I could not say so," Bellonus says, half-scared, half-exulting, and they pull hastily at each other's clothing, between kisses, until they are both undressed and Deomiorix is back to sprawling on the bed, watching him with wide dark eyes. His cock is hard already, and Bellonus wants to touch him, to taste him--

Deomiorix laughs a little. "You can see how much I'm fond of the idea, in fact," he says, gesturing down at himself. Hard, and no one has even touched him.

Bellonus swallows nervously. "I've hardly done this," he says, babbling now. "I know I am not as skilled as you--"

Another chuckle. "Philippos, if I wanted a professional, I'm in a house of them. I want _you_."

"All right," he says, settling with difficulty on the small bed. He runs a hand all along Deomiorix' thighs, then up to his stomach, then down, and Deomiorix gasps as he encircles him with his hand.

Carefully, conscious of what he is doing, he leans down and takes Deomiorix into his mouth. Deomiorix groans, thrusting up into him, and Bellonus feels -- joyful. This is exactly what he wanted. It is slightly awkward, and he keeps backing off, returning to using just his hand or licking up along the length of him. He smiles at Deomiorix, who gives him a dazed grin in return, and then gasps as Bellonus slides his hand a little.

"I'm not going to last much longer," Deomiorix pants, voice low and full of lust. "Do you want me to come in your mouth? I don't have to--"

"Please," Bellonus says, the thought itself arousing him. "I would like that."

So he puts his mouth back on Deomiorix, surrounding his cock as much as he is able, sliding his tongue just so against the most sensitive spots, as Deomiorix thrusts into his mouth harder, less restrained now. He feels hands on the back of his neck, on his head, holding him exactly there. _Yes_. He licks once more, and Deomiorix gives a surprised-sounding gasp, very quietly, and comes. Swallowing is messy and awkward and one of the best things Bellonus has ever tried.

Deomiorix, his breathing still ragged, pulls him up to lie practically on top of him on the narrow bed, and the friction of that against his cock makes Bellonus groan in pleasure. He is so close himself, just from doing that.

"You enjoyed that, eh?" Deomiorix breathes. "Here. Let me--"

Deomiorix works a hand between their bodies and barely gets his fingers on Bellonus before Bellonus is coming, on Deomiorix' hand, on his stomach. Drained, he can't support his own weight, and so he lies, resting his head against Deomiorix' shoulder.

"I think you can tell how much I enjoyed that," Bellonus says, half-embarrassed by his speed.

Deomiorix laughs. "I'm flattered. And pleased. And glad you told me what you wanted."

They kiss lazily a few more times. Bellonus nuzzles him sleepily, sated, kissing the join of neck and shoulder. He wishes he could stay here forever.

"That would be good," Deomiorix agrees, and Bellonus realises he must have spoken aloud.

It could be true, if Deomiorix would let him buy him, he thinks, but then Deomiorix cranes his head up and kisses him again, and Bellonus can think of only how happy he is. He feels -- accepted. In this space, his desires are all good. It is a strange feeling.

But it can't last forever, and it is far too soon when Deomiorix wriggles his way out from under him, face apologetic, and starts to put his tunic back on.

"I'll come back," Bellonus says, dressing. "Sooner, if I can."

Deomiorix helps him arrange his toga over his shoulder -- he's getting better at it, every time -- and holds him in his arms, briefly, dropping a few more light kisses on the back of his neck. "I look forward to it."

It hurts him, almost a physical pain, to take that step away from Deomiorix, to put his hand on the doorframe. From the look on Deomiorix' face as he turns to bid him farewell, he knows the other man feels the same, and the ache is only worse when he leaves and the curtain is finally shut behind him.

Is this love? He still isn't sure. It would be madness, like something out of stories, to be in love with Deomiorix. All Bellonus knows is that when he is with him, he is happy.

* * *

The next morning, Bellonus finds out via a very prompt and bright-eyed young messenger that the man Atellus wanted him to see, one Lucius Sertorius, is back in Pompeii early and eager to have him take a look at his property that very day.

Bellonus sighs as he saddles up Boukephalos yet again. He isn't expecting much, but he rides out to meet this Sertorius anyway, and from the main road the two of them head to his property.

Coming up on the land, a few hours later, Bellonus finds that he is, to his amazement, already pleased with the distance. It is about a half-day's ride east of the city, perhaps less at the pace he would ordinarily travel at alone; not too close, and not too far away either.

The farm is neither too large nor too small; it is workable, and yet he would not need a vast number of men for the fields. It is a working farm already; there are a few slaves in the fields. There are empty fields as well, and he likes the idea of having the space, of growing into one of those men forever building new war machines on their land, or merely of having empty land to sit on, up on the hillside. And something about the land is -- charming. It is cosy, somehow. Inviting. A stream runs by the villa, and a stand of trees, and he likes it immediately.

The villa itself is just as he had hoped. Nothing too small, and yet nothing so grand that he would be lonely and dwarfed by its size. It is in good repair, and the insides of it are full of bright murals, mostly depicting nature, just as colourful inside as it is outside.

It is perfect.

He turns to Sertorius the instant they have stepped out of the villa. "How much?"

Sertorius smiles.

He can imagine himself living there already. It is exactly as he imagined. Except, he thinks, sadly, on the long ride back to Pompeii, that it would lack Deomiorix. But there's nothing he can do about that.

* * *

Bellonus begins the next day borrowing the use of his cousin's office and scribe, setting out a message to Caecilius, asking for help managing the financial details of the purchase, and is so caught up in how many denarii for this, that, and the other thing that when he hears heavy booted footsteps in the atrium, he naturally thinks it must have something to do with money. It can't be from the legion, he realises. They would have sent his money directly to the banker as instructed. It has to be something else.

He walks out into the atrium and stops. And stares at the imperial courier. And blinks, and looks again. No, the man in the atrium is definitely an imperial courier. _What's going on?_

"You are Gaius Cornelius Luci filius Bellonus, tribunus angusticlavius of II Adiutrix?" the man asks.

Bellonus nods. "I am he."

The man nods briskly. "I am to inform you that Quintus Petillius Cerialis, your former commander, now consul, is being honoured, by the vote of the senate, with a triumph, celebrating his victory over the Brigantes. As one of his officers, you are to march with him in the ceremony this autumn."

Bellonus gapes, astonished. A triumph is for a victory, yes -- not that they've had much of a victory over the Brigantes -- but it is only for the imperial family. He knows, of course, that Cerialis' late wife was the emperor's daughter, and he supposes that somehow this makes him related enough. But, still -- he is to parade through the streets of Rome with Cerialis, as his commander is celebrated by all? It is fantastic.

"Thank you," Bellonus says, still astonished.

The courier holds up a hand. "That is not all, sir. I am instructed to tell you that Cerialis has expressed to the emperor himself that this victory could not have been won without the work and skill of his officers, naming you among them, and the emperor has agreed that the honour of the triumph belongs as well to Cerialis' officers. Therefore, you are to be awarded the triumphal regalia."

Bellonus is dimly aware that his mouth is hanging open. The emperor is honouring him, personally, for his service? With triumphal regalia? He has earned the favour of the emperor himself?

"You're -- you're not joking, are you?" he manages weakly.

"No, sir," the courier says.

"I'm not dreaming?"

The man's mouth twitches a little. "No, sir."

"Thank you," Bellonus says again, as fervently as possible. "Thank you very much."

* * *

The news is hardly private, and so it spreads through Pompeii like wildfire. Bellonus is still dazed. By midday it seems as if everyone he has met so far in Pompeii has come to congratulate him. Annalis and Macula come by and propose another dinner party, in celebration, two days hence. Still in shock, Bellonus can only agree.

At the forum baths that afternoon, people he doesn't even know nod and smile at him as he enters. Murena finds him in the tepidarium.

"I heard the news," Murena says, embracing him, clapping him firmly on the back. "Congratulations. How are you feeling?"

"Odd," Bellonus says, after a long period of time considering it.

The look he gives Murena must be strange indeed, because it only makes Murena laugh. "I'm sure you'll get used to it. Perhaps we'll call _you_ someday a _vir triumphalis_, eh?"

He knows that honour is reserved only for Cerialis, whose triumph it is, and laughs. "I think not."

"Well," Murena says, "I had no idea the fight against the Brigantes went as well as all that, for there to be a triumph, eh?"

"It didn't," Bellonus says, without even having to think about it. "We didn't catch Venutius, so I wonder what poor Celt they'll march in chains and execute for the crowd."

He swallows and blanches in horror as an image of Deomiorix floats through his head. He's being awarded the emperor's favour for murdering the Brigantes. He -- he can't. Maybe he can refuse. No. He can't possibly refuse the emperor. Just because he -- loves Deomiorix.

He loves Deomiorix.

Murena misinterprets the look on his face. "It's just an execution. Have you really lost your stomach for war that much?"

Bellonus nods weakly. "I'm buying a villa and retiring." After this triumph. If not before. He wonders if retiring will get him out of it.

Murena claps him on the shoulder and laughs again, forever jovial. "But what a way to end your career! I'll see you at Annalis and Macula's party, eh?"

"Certainly," Bellonus says, as Murena nods and heads off.

In the caldarium, Crassus comes up to him. Bellonus steels himself at the man's approach, but Crassus only smiles broadly.

"Congratulations, Bellonus!"

Bellonus waits for the sentence to somehow turn into an insult, but it does not. He blinks. "Thank you."

"It is a great honour you have been given," Crassus says, and is the look on his face supposed to be pleasure? "The highest honour anyone can aspire to, I should think."

Bellonus shifts uncomfortably. "I was hardly trying, senator," he says, and it's even true.

"Nonetheless," the man says, "it is a great honour. The greatest. I merely wished to tell you so, and again to congratulate you on having been awarded the regalia. It is a credit to your skills and an honour to you and your family. I'm sure your friends are pleased for you as well, on this occasion of your great fortune."

"They're having a party in my honour," Bellonus says absently. "And I haven't been awarded it yet," he adds, with the odd feeling that something about this conversation is very wrong, and he can't figure out what his mind is trying to tell him.

"I am sure nothing will impede that," Crassus says, smiling, and congratulates him one more time before leaving.

Well. That was certainly the strangest conversation he's ever had with Crassus. He thinks perhaps it is that any compliment coming from the man sounds odd.

* * *

He has to see Deomiorix, even though it is late already, once he is out of the baths. The brothel owner does not look at him any differently as he places the usual amount on the desk; perhaps the news has not made it here. Or perhaps it is that the owner does not know his name.

Deomiorix smiles at him broadly as soon as he sees him, and Bellonus sighs and holds up a hand. The man hasn't heard. He can't bear to have him smiling like that. Bellonus has helped kill his people, after all.

"Don't congratulate me," he says, wearily.

Deomiorix runs to him anyway, puts his arms around him. Kindness he doesn't deserve. "Congratulate you about what?" he says, pressing a kiss to Bellonus' cheek.

Bellonus sighs. "I am being awarded the triumphal regalia, as a sign of the emperor's favour."

"And I am not to congratulate you?" Deomiorix says, smiling broadly at the news.

"No," he says, moving to the bed, sitting. Deomiorix keeps an arm around him. "It is an extraordinary thing, yes, done at the behest of my commander, whose triumph is to be celebrated, and it is a great honour. I wish to refuse it, but I do not think I can."

Deomiorix stares at him, puzzled. "Why would you refuse?"

He looks up, bleakly. "It is celebrating his victory over the Brigantes. I am being rewarded for killing your countrymen. I can't do that."

Strangely, Deomiorix is not angry. "What's done is done," he says, slowly. "And I know that you wished to live in peace with my people; you have spoken enough about how you enjoyed the years of peace of your first posting to me. But you are a soldier, and the emperor's favour should mean more to you than the good opinion of a slave."

Bellonus shakes his head. "Your opinion means the world to me," he says, "more than anything the emperor could give me."

Deomiorix stares at him. "I mean nothing. Take the emperor's favour, and smile, and go on another campaign. It's what soldiers do, isn't it?"

Bellonus meets his stare. "I'm not doing that."

"Why?" The question is simple.

"Because I'm in love with you."

It is a day for surprises, apparently. Bellonus is shocked at the words he himself has just said. What if the man laughs, or says it can't be so?

A huge smile spreads slowly over Deomiorix' face. "Ah, Philippos. Don't throw your career away for me," he says, finally, as if those weren't the words he wanted to say.

Bellonus stammers, hesitant. He should not have said it. "You don't--?"

Deomiorix draws him closer and kisses him, firmly. "And I love you as well." Something in Bellonus' chest lightens, relaxes. Deomiorix loves him? It can't be true. "I know how you must feel -- do you know how it makes me feel, to know that you would care for me more than this honour? -- but take your emperor's favour for this thing you have already done; it will not make me love you less."

He's still stammering. "You-- you really--?"

Deomiorix smiles at him again, holding out his hand to caress Bellonus' face. "Yes. And I know it is mad, insane, foolish, all of these things I accuse you of being, and yet--"

"You love me," Bellonus repeats.

Deomiorix kisses him again, more deeply, pushing his toga off him. "I love you." He lifts up Bellonus' tunic, presses kisses to the hollow of his throat, lower, down his stomach.

Bellonus works at Deomiorix' belt, helps him slide his tunic off. "Maybe you say that to all your clients, eh?"

A laugh, a light tap to the side of his head in rebuke. "No. Now lie back and let me kiss you properly."

There is something in his tone that makes Bellonus thrill to obey. Deomiorix lies on top of him, and they kiss for a long while, slowly. Deomiorix whispers his love for him between every kiss, until Bellonus clutches him closer, arching up against his body, and the whispers turn into gasps as they slide against one another. Bellonus is dimly aware he's telling him the words back in Greek: _agapô se, philô se, erô sou_. They're all true, all the kinds of love.

Then Deomiorix pushes against him harder, and something about the angle is exactly perfect. He can no longer find words, and clutches Deomiorix to him, as Deomiorix finds his mouth again with his, and Deomiorix is coming, and he is coming, and at this moment there is nothing better than this.

"I'm retiring, you know," Bellonus informs him, afterwards, still kissing Deomiorix, lying lazily underneath him. He can hardly believe this is true. Deomiorix loves him. It is worth the favour of the emperor ten thousand times over. "I'm buying a farm, a half-day's ride away. I don't suppose you've changed your mind about me buying you...?"

Deomiorix shakes his head. "It is as I told you." He knows he hardly needs the man's permission; he could buy him anyway. But if he did he would not be respecting him, the way he respects him now, a strange sentiment, as if he is an equal who happens to be a slave -- and that, he realises with a start, was the very thing Deomiorix had been trying to tell him. He understands. Perhaps it is because of love.

"Then I will visit you," Bellonus says. "As often as I can, and dream of you every night I cannot see you."

Deomiorix curls his body around him almost possessively. "I can do that."

"You'll still be here?"

Deomiorix smiles. "I'm still getting work."

Bellonus runs a hand along Deomiorix' long, graceful side. "That's because you're beautiful."

A chuckle. "Flatterer."

"It's true," he says, and kisses him another time. Deomiorix loves him back. He dared not say these words to anyone, not even Athanasios, but Deomiorix loves him back.

"Don't worry," Deomiorix tells him. "I'm not going anywhere."

They spend the rest of their hour lying like that, touching and kissing and talking of everything and nothing at all. Bellonus feels overwhelmingly grateful, and silly, and a thousand other things. From the smile on Deomiorix' face, it seems he feels the same. Bellonus runs his hands through the man's hair, trying to memorise the feel of the curls, down his neck to his back, the way his weight rests so comfortingly on top of him. All of these things to treasure when he is not here.

"I'm not moving for a while yet, either," he says. "I can come back, perhaps tomorrow. As often as I can. You know, this is never how it works in the plays. They all beg to be bought by their lovers."

"No," Deomiorix says, "I am far more stubborn than any of the hetaerae in plays, I fear."

"I love you for it," he says.

Deomiorix laughs. "Now I know you are truly in love, saying a mad thing like that."

"Let us stay here," Bellonus says, "like this. I'll pay for another hour, whatever pleases your owners. I'll stay into the night."

But just as he says it, there is a rap on the wall next to the curtain, a call that another client is waiting in the main area.

Deomiorix sighs. "I am afraid we cannot."

"I will come back, then," Bellonus vows, "as soon as I can."

They kiss a few more times, dressing slowly, taking their time until there is no more time left to take.

"Be well," Bellonus says.

"Be well," Deomiorix replies, and then adds something in Celtic he can't quite recall the meaning of.

Bellonus makes his way out, feeling his heart ache more with every passing step that takes them farther apart. He is in the street before he remembers the words. _My love_.


	3. Omnia vincit amor

Sadly, the next two days see Bellonus busy enough that he can't very well disappear by himself into the streets of Pompeii; it would be noticed.

There are more well-wishers, and then a message comes from Caecilius; his funds, at last have arrived, and he spends the morning and most of the afternoon at Caecilius' house, discussing how best to transact the purchase of the farm. He signs the contracts, and Caecilius smiles happily as he does so. He is another satisfied client, he supposes.

The banker and he share a celebratory cup of wine, and Caecilius' young son joins them as well, he who is to someday inherit his father's vast businesses. The boy is quick-witted and has a pleasant streak of nobility in his bearing, notable in one but two generations removed from slavery; Caecilius' father had been a freedman. For all that slavery in Rome can be cruel, it can raise people out of it to wealth and prominence with astonishing quickness; he wishes once more that Deomiorix would let him show him that.

After their business is at last concluded, Bellonus goes to the baths alone, but quickly runs into Atellus, and there thanks him for all the help finding the farm. That evening, his cousin wishes to honour him at dinner, too; it is only expected.

"I've bought a farm," he says, "after all."

"Philippos," his cousin says, "that is excellent news, but what do you know about farming?"

Bellonus blinks. That, he never actually considered. His cousin laughs and summons a slave to bring him scrolls from the office, the works of Cato, Varro, and Columella on farming for him to read tomorrow, in the daylight. They discuss the size of his farm, how many slaves he thinks he will need to buy, for they do not, after all, come with the property. That is another cost he had not considered, as well. For although slaves for the field are cheaper than most, he will of course need a cook and a scribe and various other skilled positions for the house. Bellonus shuts his eyes, thinking of the one slave he wants to buy, and cannot.

"I have enjoyed your company," Marcus says, "and I am pleased that you will live in this area; you are of course welcome to visit at any time."

Bellonus smiles. If it were up to him, he would come every day, to see Deomiorix. "I am hardly moving so soon; I have only just met with the banker and given the money over. And you are most welcome to visit me, cousin, once I have moved there."

That night he dreams again of Deomiorix holding him, and this time in the dream there is the warmth of a fire at their backs, and all is right with the world.

In the morning, he sits and reads the scroll of Columella's writings on farming until Caecilius' messenger comes in the afternoon, and from there meets Sertorius again, to finally agree upon the contract. The land is his.

Annalis and Macula find him in the baths, and there persuade him to go to their house already, so early in the evening. It is lucky that the wine is so watered, else Bellonus would probably let slip so many things he dares not talk about.

They all recline on the three couches, giving Bellonus the favoured spot, and they toast his success and the victories of the campaign. Bellonus swallows the wine and tries not to think about all the bodies.

"Ah, was it not glorious in Britannia?" Annalis says. "All the fighting. And you led well; it is fitting that the emperor will honour you."

Macula, a little more drunk already, laughs and raises his cup, wobbling. "And the women were glorious too, were they not? I developed quite a taste for them."

Murena laughs. "You and your womanising. Philippos, here, has always been so much more restrained. I'm sure you hardly saw him chasing after Brigantian women. He rarely did when I was posted with him."

_Yes_, Bellonus thinks. _It is because I was chasing after the men. Or with Athanasios, a few of the years._ He was always careful, always discreet, and he made sure to take a few obvious female lovers, lest anyone suspect. His friends certainly never have, clearly.

Macula snorts. "It is only because after all that commanding of his, he did not have the energy left to take the women by force!"

Bellonus snorts. "It is much easier when they go willingly, if you ask them nicely in Celtic."

Annalis laughs. "But who knows that barbarian tongue, eh?"

"Philippos does," Murena says. "The first couple years, he was running around, dressed like a Celt himself, speaking Celtic with everyone."

"Those were my orders," Bellonus points out. Never mind how much he enjoyed it, how much he wishes the queen had not been deposed and Brigantia had remained loyal. He had been happy then, as happy now as with Deomiorix, before the battle against Boudicca came and shattered everything, and that only the start of his career.

"So they were," Murena admits.

The rest of the night is spent laughing and chatting about this battle and that, all sorts of old reminiscences. Bellonus drinks more and smiles, knowing he is with friends. He pretends they are the friend he wants.

* * *

That night his streak of peaceful dreams is broken, as he dreams of his first battle.

_They are ordered away from Isurium Brigantum in haste, by messengers in the night. Boudicca and her Iceni are attacking Camulodunum, the word is. They must go south, now._

_He remembers looking at Murena for one long instant as they pack up camp, hurriedly, shivering in the autumn chill. Murena is a little older, has seen battle before, but Bellonus has not. And he knows, somehow, from Murena's face, that this will be something awful._

_Cerialis marches them as fast as they can, but they are too late -- the warrior queen has taken the city. They are outnumbered and fighting from a position of weakness. Nonetheless, he gives orders, and Bellonus rides back and forth behind his cohort as they make the line, the shield-wall. He is terrified, even though he knows he will have to do none of the fighting himself. He has a distinct memory of sitting his horse -- it was some mare, not Boukephalos then -- and waiting._

_After that, none of his memories make sense. Iceni and Trinovantes, thousands upon thousands, break the line, screaming obscenities and cries of battle. It is nothing like the peaceful life he has had for two years among the Brigantes. He has memories of galloping through a field covered in blood and shattered skulls. He remembers watching one of his men, a veteran soldier, years older than him, take an arrow in the throat and go down. The blood splatters on his hands. He remembers stabbing a man with his sword, watching him die. The first man he has killed. He thinks perhaps he kills others, in the thick of the fighting, where an officer like him should not have ended up. He can't remember much more._

_His men fight valiantly, but they are up against too many, and Cerialis orders a retreat. He remembers being covered in the blood of others, drying, as his winded and fearful horse gallops along the road toward the camp, in the direction of safety. His horse's sides are lathered with sweat. He can barely hold on himself. If he falls from his horse he will die too, trampled. No one will stop for him._

_At the camp that night, five hundred men stare at each other numbly, and he is one of them. They had five times that number in the morning. It is mostly the officers who survived. And though Bellonus knows he should not, he sits by the fire and cries. The tears wet his mask of blood and dirt. It is not fair, none of it, that he should have survived when others did not. He is only seventeen. His first battle should have been noble, should have been a victory. It should have been nothing like this._

_Murena finds him still awake, sitting by the burnt-out ashes of the fire at dawn. Welcome to war, he remembers Murena telling him._

Bellonus wakes and almost wants to cry again. It is as if his career, for all that he is being honoured for it, has cursed him from the very start. He knows this. The dreams didn't start then, of course; no, they took years to build up, ambushing him in peaceful times, when he only wished to relax. It was the talk of the past last night that did it, he knows. He has no wish to be reminded of much of it.

He must go see Deomiorix today, he decides. Even if they don't talk about it, it will make Bellonus feel better, and he can feel the nightmare begin to recede just at the thought of seeing him. Surely he can be spared a few hours today?

* * *

As soon as he can decently excuse himself, Bellonus practically runs to the brothel that morning. He is going to see Deomiorix; though he has only been denied his company for a few days, the ache within him is almost overpowering.

Past the doorkeeper, the woman looks up, and he puts the usual two sesterces on the desk.

But this time, the woman shakes her head, sadly. "I am sorry, but Britannicus is not available. May I interest you in another choice?"

Not available? Well, he did say he was still getting work. Bellonus frowns. "All right, I'll wait."

The woman tilts her head, giving him a quizzical look, and a frown. "Sir, he's no longer here. He was sold yesterday morning."

Sold? The world spins dizzily for an instant, and Bellonus clutches the desk for support. This is a possibility he had never considered.

"They got a very fine sum for him," the woman says. "Two thousand denarii. Of course, the owners could not refuse. We'll all miss him, you know."

Bellonus tries to make the words make sense. Two thousand is more than anyone would pay for a slave with no listed skills, as Deomiorix has. Two thousand is more than almost anyone except senators can afford to pay. Two thousand is exactly what a senator like Crassus would pay, to show that he could. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

Suddenly Crassus' bizarre behaviour at the baths the other day makes sense. Bellonus now has something Crassus wants, the ultimate sign of favour the man will never earn. In return, in his twisted jealousy, Crassus will make sure Bellonus never sees Deomiorix again. He wants to cause him pain? This will wound him, and Crassus knows it. And Deomiorix will die, sooner or later. Probably sooner.

"I suppose you'll tell me," Bellonus says weakly, "that it is the senator Publius Crassus who bought him."

The woman nods. "Indeed." She looks afraid. "It is said that he doesn't treat his slaves well, but he has money, and that's all the owners care about."

He pushes the two sesterces at her anyway. "Can you tell me where he lives?"

* * *

Crassus' house in town is large and richly appointed, with no visitors this early, but filled with a great many slaves scurrying to and fro, looking cowed and beaten, as he would expect. None of them are Deomiorix. What if he's beaten Deomiorix already? What if he's killed him?

No, Bellonus knows, he won't kill him first. He'll have waited. He's waiting for at least this, waiting for Bellonus to suffer.

"Sir," a slave at the door says politely, in good, if accented, Latin. "Have you an appointment with the senator?"

"Tell your master," Bellonus says, voice icy and commanding, like the one he uses with the rawest recruits, "that Gaius Bellonus wishes to speak with him about one of his recent purchases. He will see me immediately."

The slave escorts him into the atrium and then darts off, presumably to fetch his master.

Crassus shows up in a few minutes, rubbing his hands together and looking positively overjoyed. "Ah, Bellonus!" he says. There is a wide, gleeful smile on his face. Bellonus imagines breaking the man's jaw. "I was wondering when you would come."

Bellonus tries to smile; it comes out as gritted teeth. "Where is he?"

Crassus laughs. "Missing your whore, are you? Don't worry; I have him here. He was quite unwilling to leave. I'm afraid I've had to keep him chained up in the meantime."

"I'll pay you the two thousand denarii you paid for him," Bellonus says, desperately. "I'll pay you four thousand. Whatever you want. Any amount of money. Name it." It's only money.

The man only laughs harder. "He's not for sale at any price. I have become quite enamoured of him, you see. Would you like to see him?" He calls to one of the slaves, scurrying about. "Fetch the new Celt."

Deomiorix is barely recognisable as he shuffles slowly into the room, wrists and ankles chained. He is dirty, his tunic is ripped, and there are shadows of bruises beginning to form on his face. He doesn't look up. But at least he can walk, still, and his gait doesn't look pained. He is safe yet, and that is perhaps the only thing Bellonus can find to take comfort in. Something within him twists.

"No," Crassus calls, impatiently. "Faster. Attend me, whore." Bellonus clenches and unclenches his fists. If he were not in Crassus' house -- if there were not so many who would intervene -- he would kill him. Right now, with his bare hands. Then Deomiorix would be safe. Bellonus would be tried and executed, of course. He'd trade his life for Deomiorix'.

Deomiorix, finally reaching Crassus' side, looks up, and that is when he meets Bellonus' gaze. Bellonus can see the hope in his eyes. He is not broken, not yet.

Deomiorix speaks rapidly, in Celtic, almost too fast for him to follow. "He hasn't hurt me yet, much," he says, quickly. "Don't worry. I'm all right. And I--"

Whatever else he was going to say is cut off when Crassus lazily backhands him across the face. "Do not speak any of your filthy barbarian language, whore, or I will have your tongue cut out."

Deomiorix staggers, but stays upright. The blow has cut his lip, and there is blood on his mouth now. "Yes, _domine_," he says, quietly. Cowed. Pretending to be cowed.

"Is he not beautiful?" Crassus says, reaching out to trace a finger possessively along Deomiorix' face. "He is prettier on his knees, though. He has a sweet mouth, does he not?"

Bellonus glares. "If you hurt him--"

"If I hurt him, what will you do?" Crassus asks. Taunts. "He is mine now, to do with as I wish." It is an act of madness to buy a slave just to kill him, a waste of money at least, though it is certainly possible and more or less legal. And, unfortunately, Crassus is not quite sane.

"Please," Bellonus says. "I beg you. I'm begging you now to spare him. Anything you want." Deomiorix' life is more important than his pride.

Crassus steeples his fingers together. "You, Bellonus, are beneath me. You are an equestrian. You are a Greek. You are a cinaedus -- oh, yes, I know." Bellonus doesn't even bother trying to deny it. "And yet you are receiving the favour of the emperor, the triumphal regalia, the greatest honour any of us can hope for. I detest you."

"If I could I would give the regalia to you," Bellonus says, "if it's that important to you. His life is worth that to me." It's the truth.

"But you cannot," Crassus says. "So you will have your regalia, and I will have your whore, and then, perhaps, you will feel as you deserve to feel, _cinaede_."

"Don't do this," Bellonus says again, desperately. "I beg you."

"Ah, but begging is exactly what I want from you," Crassus says. "This is most excellent. And, as you see, I've hardly had any amusement out of your whore yet. It is so difficult to be undisturbed in the city. I'm taking him to my villa tonight, in the country. Much quieter there. Many fewer wagging tongues."

Bellonus swallows. Deomiorix has until tonight, then, and from the look on Deomiorix' face, he knows it.

Crassus leans in closer, pitching his voice so only Bellonus can hear. "I'll send you his head when I'm done with him tonight, eh? You'll have something to remember him by." He smiles.

Bellonus looks at him bleakly, unable to form words. This can't be happening. What is he going to do? He can do nothing to stop any of it. Deomiorix is going to die.

"And now," Crassus says, still smiling, "I think you should leave. I am a very busy man, you see. Congratulations again on your great honour," he adds.

Deomiorix' eyes are wide and terrified, but he stands tall and unbroken. He will go bravely, and Bellonus knows he would not go any other way. His face is the last thing Bellonus sees before the slaves escort him out.

* * *

Bellonus has to do something, he thinks, as soon as he is in the street again. He has to get Deomiorix away. The consequences would be minimal for him -- theft, if Crassus prosecutes, which he would not, because then he would have to explain the entire situation -- but much more severe for Deomiorix, if they are caught.

All they have to do is not get caught. It is like one of his old scouting missions. This is his last mission. Bellonus' mouth quirks, as the idea occurs to him.

The problem, unfortunately, is that the empire is quite good at the business of catching fugitive slaves, especially here, so near the heart of it. There is nowhere anyone could run. Fortunately, for him, he has resources most fugitive slaves do not -- such as money, which will take them far.

He practically runs back to his cousin's house, stripping off his toga in the cubiculum, finding an old plain tunic, shrugging off the odd looks Felix is giving him. People see the stripe of his tunic more than they see him. In a plain tunic, he is anonymous. Or more likely to be so.

Bellonus takes a dagger for his own protection, before heading out alone to the seedier areas by the harbour. People will do anything for enough money. Someone will do this for him.

Eventually, after an hour of pressing coins into people's palms -- so long! he has so little time! -- Bellonus finds a man who will do what he wants. A man who owns a ship and will set sail to Britannia. No questions asked.

"How many passengers?" the man says, roughly, "and when?" He has not given his name; he has not asked for Bellonus', either. Good.

They are in the darkened corner of a tavern, a place no good equestrian should ever set foot in. This is, in a way, a good choice -- he would never be thought of as one who would come here. Perhaps later, Crassus will not think to look here.

He could send Deomiorix home by himself, but -- no. He is going with him. He has to. He could not leave him now, never to see him again. So much for his plan to settle down in Pompeii. Besides, he always liked Britannia.

"Two. Myself and another man," Bellonus says, quietly. "Leaving tonight, or sometime early tomorrow morning."

The man names a price that is outrageous, or intended to be so, but Bellonus nods. "You'll have it when you set sail, no sooner." Bellonus thinks about the money he has at home. Yes, he has enough for that.

The stranger grins happily. "I'll see you at the docks."

* * *

It is easy enough, and for even less money someone tells him where Crassus' villa in the country is. Bellonus looks up at the sky in alarm; it is almost midday, and the man's villa is a long ride north, near Herculaneum. He must reach it before tonight, and there is so much to do first.

He packs efficiently -- one of the things the army teaches everyone -- and he knows exactly what he needs to buy. Blankets, in case they are necessary to warm him, if he's lost blood. Hooded travelling cloaks -- Deomiorix' hair is, unfortunately, distinctive. A tunic and sandals for Deomiorix, because he fears by the time he finds him they will have divested him of his. Bandages. A pot of salve. He already has some food in his saddlebags -- dried meat, but it will do. Water. Money he has aplenty, for paying his way on the ship. He retrieves his funds in a quick stop back at his cousin's, where he picks up his spare dagger.

He already owns weapons, of course. There's probably no use in bringing a sword, which would stand out far too much, but a dagger or two would not go amiss. The point, after all, is not a battle -- it is a rescue. In and out quickly, after Deomiorix is there but before Crassus has begun torturing him, so they will have a head start on their pursuers. They will have to move fast. It is not as if Crassus will not have any idea who might have stolen his slave, after all.

If he gets there after Crassus has begun -- Bellonus does not know what he will do, but it will probably end in someone's death. He hopes for Crassus'.

He goes to where Boukephalos is stabled, and ponders buying another horse. He doesn't even know if Deomiorix will be able to ride in his condition, whatever it will be, and without a rider, another horse would only slow him down. And -- he looks up at the sky again -- there is hardly time to buy one. Crassus himself has probably left already. They can ride double, then. He's done it often enough on campaign to know that Boukephalos can handle two, with supplies and armour.

Boukephalos whinnies and stamps impatiently as Bellonus saddles him; it is as if the horse thinks they are riding off to war. Which, in some sense, they are. He packs everything neatly into his saddlebags, weapons, clothing, and all, and rolls the blanket on top, behind the saddle.

He is ready.

* * *

By the time he arrives at Crassus' villa, it is nearly dusk, and the general amount of the activity lets him know that the senator must be there already. The place is huge, of course; the man needs to display his wealth.

He dismounts from Boukephalos some distance away, leading him off the road and into a small stand of trees that probably marks the edge of the property. He ties him down and Boukephalos instantly starts munching on the patches of grass he can find. Hungry thing. Bellonus pats him roughly on the neck in gratitude. Good horse. He dares not unsaddle him; they will, he hopes, be leaving soon -- and quickly.

Time for the plan. He pulls a bundle out of his saddlebags. Tunic, sandals, bandages, daggers. Hopefully all he needs. It is small enough; let them take it for his meagre personal effects. For Gaius Bellonus is now Philippos, the new slave.

He walks quickly up to the villa, entering through the slave quarters in the back. No sign of Deomiorix. Crassus must have him somewhere else. In the crowd, no one notices him, just another slave. There are so many. Elsewhere in the house, he can hear sounds of laughter from what is probably the triclinium. Crassus must be enjoying a meal, first. Good.

But now where to look? His thoughts are interrupted by someone calling.

"Hey, you!" a man calls out in rough, coarse Latin. "You, blue eyes! Come here."

Him, then. Bellonus turns to see a tall, craggy-faced man. He must be an overseer. Bellonus hopes he looks appropriately servile, and ducks his head a little more.

"What's your name?"

"I am Philippos," Bellonus says, hesitantly, as if he doesn't quite understand Latin and this is the only sentence he has thus far mastered.

"I don't recognise you," the man says, suspiciously. "Are you one of the new slaves delivered today?" Oh, this is good fortune indeed. Crassus must have bought others.

Bellonus nods a few times, slowly, as if he still doesn't understand, and puts on his thickest Greek accent. "Sir, please, the master gave orders, but I do not understand where I go."

The man rolls his eyes. "Another Greek? Can't he get ones that speak good Latin, at least? Very well, what did he say that you should do?" A pause, as Bellonus pretends not to understand, and the man sighs and rephrases. "What orders?"

"Sir," Bellonus says, politely. "The master said, I guard a slave, but I do not understand." He hopes that Crassus is the sort of person who would order this. Please, please let him be this paranoid.

"Guard a...? He must have meant the new Celt. Odd job for a new slave, but I suppose you look strong enough," the man says, more or less to himself. Then, slower. "There is another building. If you go out the door there and walk straight ahead, you will see it. It is small." He pauses, to make sure Bellonus understands. "Eh, Philippos? Do you understand?"

He pretends confusion. "There I... guard?"

The man sighs, clearly harried. "They have the Celt already there; all you have to do is watch the door until the master is done with dinner and ready for him."

Bellonus blinks a few times. "I watch the door?"

The man nods again. "Yes. That way." He turns Bellonus, gives him a hard shove on the shoulders. "Off with you."

That, Bellonus thinks as he stumbles out the door, was entirely too easy.

* * *

Unfortunately, as he walks to the small building, set apart from the villa, set far back -- Crassus must want his privacy, oh yes -- he sees there is another man there, outside the door. Well, he couldn't expect it all to go as smoothly.

"Hail," Bellonus says, cheerfully, still with a heavy accent, acting for all the world as if he is supposed to be there.

The man at the door eyes him warily. "Who are you?"

"Philippos." Bellonus smiles brightly. "I'm new, and I was told to guard, but I don't understand what's going on here."

"You must be really new, eh?" The man sizes him up. "You look to have some strength in you; you'll need it for this."

"Eh?"

The man chucks his thumb at the closed door of the building. "The master likes to have his fun with new slaves, occasionally, ones he buys specially. He's got some Celt in there, tied up with some rope. Right now we don't do much except wait. Sometimes he wants us to go in and check on him, make sure he hasn't passed out or got loose or anything, give him water. The Celt's got to stay alive and awake until the master's ready for him. The master likes when they can think about what's coming."

Bellonus pretends more confusion. "What's coming?"

The man laughs broadly. "What do you think? I hear this one used to be a whore, but he sure doesn't go along easily. So sometimes, the master will want to untie them, and we have to help him hold them down. It's not too bad, unless you get one who bites. Mostly we just stay out of the way, make sure he doesn't get loose and harm the master."

Bellonus feels sick. Crassus has a routine. He's done this more than once. Many times, from the sound of it.

"All right," he says. "Should we go check on him now?"

The man shrugs. "Sure, but it's almost time. But we might as well be certain he's ready, eh?"

He turns to open the door, barely pushing it open, and that is precisely when Bellonus slides the dagger out of its bag, reverses it, and slams the man in the skull with the hilt. He crumples, satisfyingly, to the ground. Bellonus checks the pulse at the man's throat. Good. Unconscious. He won't be a murderer, at least, not unintentionally. And he doesn't have much time anyway. He drags the body inside, pushes the door shut, and only then takes a look around the small room.

The walls are covered with whips, sticks, swords and daggers of varying sizes and styles; it's like an armoury, more than anything, the purpose of which Bellonus tries not to ponder. It is an armoury, he tells himself. Except for the centre of the room, where there stands a raised platform, the length of a man. Deomiorix is lying face down on it, naked, hands and feet tied to the corners with rope. Bellonus gives silent thanks that it is only rope and not shackles. And at least he looks unbeaten so far.

Deomiorix turns his head at the sound, and only then does Bellonus see that he has been blindfolded. Crassus no doubt wants him to contemplate his fate in darkness.

Bellonus runs to his side, laying his hand on Deomiorix' shoulder, and under him Deomiorix jumps and takes a terrified half-breath. Bellonus hates to think of what the other guards have told him that make him act like this.

"Shh," he says. "It's all right. It's me; it's Philippos."

Deomiorix' voice is hoarse, raw. "Philippos? It's really you?"

Bellonus undoes the blindfold, and Deomiorix' terrified eyes meet his. "It's really me," he says, moving to pull out his dagger, work on the ropes binding Deomiorix' wrists. The skin is a little abraded under them -- he must have struggled. "I'm here to rescue you. Or steal you. Whichever."

Deomiorix sits up as Bellonus unties his feet, and his eyes are suddenly angry. "And you think I am not so beautiful that I would look so much prettier with an F branded into my face? Or an iron collar? I know what they do to fugitive slaves. Not to mention Crassus will certainly kill me when he gets me back."

"He's going to kill you tonight," Bellonus says. Why is Deomiorix fighting this? "He told me so; he said he would send me your head. And, believe me, I would rather have you alive. Come with me."

Deomiorix looks over at the downed guard, then back at Bellonus, face pale. "You're mad. We're in the middle of the empire. We can't get anywhere from here. Crassus will know. He'll find me. He'll know you were involved."

Bellonus snorts. "All we have to do is ride back to the city on a fast horse. My fast horse. There's a ship waiting to take us to Britannia; we'll be at sea before he can get there and figure out what we're up to. I did plan this, you know."

"Us?" So he did notice the pronoun, there.

Bellonus nods. "I did tell you I'm not leaving you, didn't I?" He makes it sound casual.

Deomiorix looks up at him and finally, finally smiles, a brilliant, crooked smile. "I don't think you did, but I'm beginning to get that impression."

Bellonus pulls him to his feet and holds him briefly in his arms, feeling the warmth of Deomiorix' body against his. They can be together; Crassus cannot separate them any longer. But now they have to go. The time for embracing is later. He pulls back, fishes the tunic and sandals out of his pack. "For you."

Deomiorix slips the tunic over his head quickly and begins pulling the sandals on. "Thank you. For all of it. I owe you my life."

"Did you think I would leave you to die?"

"I dreamed, I hoped--" Deomiorix' voice breaks off, and his eyes are shining.

Bellonus takes his hand. "Come on. We've got to run. Would you like a dagger?" They are partners together in this mad endeavour; somehow Bellonus feels they should be equally appointed.

Deomiorix grabs the offered dagger -- his extra one -- expertly in his free hand. "Delighted."

"Let's go."

They step out the door as one, armed and holding hands.

* * *

It goes remarkably well, at first. No one notices anything suspicious about two slaves, walking about, when there are already so many here. They are almost to the stand of trees where Boukephalos is waiting for them. Bellonus smiles. This is going to work after all.

Halfway down the slope, next to another tree, Deomiorix stops, suddenly, with a grave look of concern on his face. "Wait."

"Are you injured after all?" Bellonus sees no blood, but it could be something internal.

Deomiorix is shaking his head. "I have to go back. I've forgotten something."

Bellonus gapes at him. "Are you mad? They'll know you're missing, soon enough. Whatever it is, it's not worth your life."

Deomiorix meets his eyes, a challenge. "It is the only thing I have left of my people. It is irreplaceable. I hid it, up by the villa," he points, "earlier, when no one was watching. I have kept it all these long years, and I will not lose it now."

Before Bellonus can say anything, Deomiorix turns and runs up the slope. Mad, stubborn Celt. He hopes he'll be all right. Bellonus ducks behind a tree and waits.

An agony of waiting later, Deomiorix appears again, clutching a small, dirt-covered sack in the hand that isn't holding the dagger, picking his way nimbly down the slope. Bellonus can't help but admire his grace -- and then gasps when he sees the two men pursuing him, armed as well. Oh no. They are too late.

As he watches, one of the men closes on Deomiorix, who promptly kicks him hard in the groin, then the face, as the man doubles over and collapses, unconscious. Bellonus smirks to see it. Deomiorix fights dirty, all right, but whatever wins, he can support. Just let them both get out of here alive.

The other pursuer is more of a problem, as Deomiorix is trying to both run and fight him. The man, larger than his opponent, circles, coming up in front of him. He'll have to attack. They close, and Deomiorix feints elegantly, then slashes. A miss. They back off, and then close again. This time Deomiorix stumbles -- is he hurt? -- but recovers to quickly plunge his dagger into the man's shoulder, before turning and running to where Bellonus is. He is good. Bellonus could have used a man like that, in the army. Would have been proud to fight beside him.

In the rapidly-fading light, he can't quite see if Deomiorix has any injuries, as he runs up. "Are you hurt? Can you ride?"

"I can ride," Deomiorix says, and so Bellonus mounts Boukephalos in haste, pulling Deomiorix up behind him to ride pillion. It is a tight fit with the supplies, but they'll manage.

"Hold on."

Deomiorix wraps his arms around his waist as Bellonus digs his heels against Boukephalos' side. They must ride fast tonight.

* * *

He does not know how many watches of the night have passed. They are far ahead of any pursuers, but at the same time Pompeii is still so far away.

Suddenly, Deomiorix' arms about him loosen. "Philippos," Deomiorix says, and the voice in his ear sounds pained. "I'm afraid I can't hold on any longer."

Is he injured, then? Bellonus risks a quick glance back over his shoulder, and a flash of moonlight shows blood, running along Deomiorix' arm. Damn. One of his opponents must have got a lucky blow in after all.

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" he asks, slowing, guiding Boukephalos off the road. He risks taking a hand off the reins to hold onto Deomiorix. If he should fall--

A dry laugh. "I thought I could make it."

Well. This necessitates a change in plans. If they can't outrun their pursuers, they will have to stop and hide until they've passed. And then, of course, Crassus will have alerted the city. But it can't be helped.

There is a forest off to their right, a wild area, and Bellonus guides the horse deeper and deeper into it. They leave few tracks. No one will think to look for them here, in the wilderness, he hopes. Certainly not in the dark; how will they see? Boukephalos picks his way nimbly over roots and tree branches.

Deep within the forest Bellonus can see again. There is a small grassy clearing, letting the moonlight in. Perfect. It is not as bright as he hoped, but it will do. He pulls Boukephalos to a halt.

"Will this be all right?"

"It's pretty," Deomiorix says, sounding dazed. "I haven't seen the countryside in years. And if I am to die, I would die here with you and hope I would go to the Goddess in death, for all that she has forsaken me in life." He mumbles things in Celtic that Bellonus can't quite make out. He must be in shock.

Hurriedly, Bellonus slides off the stallion's back, and much more carefully helps Deomiorix down. His skin is cold, sweaty. Bellonus pulls out a blanket, spreading it on the ground, and then another one, which he hands to Deomiorix.

"Sit there," he says, "and wrap yourself in that blanket. You're not going to die." He must be kept warm.

Deomiorix sits, obediently enough -- a sure sign that something's wrong, at least -- clutching the blanket around him, along with the dirty bag of whatever it was he felt he had to risk his life for. "What's your horse's name?" he asks, in Celtic, laughing. He is pale-faced. "Pretty horse. Sleek horse."

"Boukephalos," Bellonus says, absently. Bandages, where are the bandages? His hand closes on the bandages and salve, but as he looks over at Deomiorix he realises it's too dark for him to see the wound properly. They need a fire. He finds his flint in the bottom of another saddlebag.

Deomiorix laughs again. "Should have figured." At this point, Bellonus is beyond wondering about his education and is now just going to accept that Deomiorix will know whose horse he named his for.

"I'm going to build a fire first," he says. "You stay there." Deomiorix is trying to get up and help.

Eventually he collects enough wood, and within a short time there is a small fire blazing, the smoke obscured by the tree branches above them. Their pursuers will never see, even if they look this way.

He hands Deomiorix a waterskin. "Drink this and let me see your left arm."

In the firelight, the wound isn't as bad as he feared -- a long cut on his upper arm, not too deep; it is only that it hasn't stopped bleeding. Bellonus wraps bandages about it and applies pressure. Finally, an eternity later, it starts to clot and he lets go, changes the bandages again.

Deomiorix is looking much less clammy, and Bellonus smiles at him, running his hands through his hair, ruffling the curls. "Don't die on me, eh? I'd miss you."

"I'll try not to." Deomiorix smiles back and pulls the blanket away a little, freeing a hand to touch Bellonus' arm. The touch warms him more than the fire. "Sorry for ruining your escape plan."

From off in the distance, Bellonus thinks he hears rapid hoofbeats. Their pursuers, probably. He shrugs. "It can't be helped. So we'll stay here overnight and go to the city in the morning, I'm thinking. Might as well stay the night if they've overtaken us."

They make a meal of the dried meat from the saddlebags, sitting on the blanket together. Bellonus can't stop himself from touching Deomiorix, here and there. He's alive. He's really still alive. Deomiorix smiles back and leans companionably into Bellonus' shoulder as he finishes the last of his meal, and Bellonus wraps his arm around him. They are together.

"So your plan is to go to Britannia?" Deomiorix says, nestling closer into him.

Bellonus nods. "I figured you might like to go back to your people, yes?"

A laugh. "They don't like Romans much in Brigantia anymore, you know."

"I know," Bellonus says. The last three years campaigning there have certainly shown him that. "But as long as they're not torturing either of us it's got to be better than here."

Deomiorix snorts against him. "And, I have to say, a lot of them probably won't like me either, especially if I show up with a Roman in tow. I can't promise it'll be any safer for either of us. I know a few people who will kill me on sight." Who is he, that he will have made so many enemies?

"Well, we can't stay here," Bellonus points out. "As a fugitive slave, the only place you might be safe is out of the empire."

Deomiorix starts to laugh then, and he laughs for almost a minute. The laugh isn't funny at all, more of a slow, wracking spasm. Bellonus holds him tight. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he says. "None of it was supposed to happen to me at all. I was never supposed to be a slave. I'm not supposed to be."

He runs his free hand through Deomiorix' hair and takes a deep breath. "Who were you supposed to be, then?" Maybe, just maybe, the man will answer.

Deomiorix turns in his arms to face him, with some effort made in avoiding the use of his injured left arm. "You won't believe me if I tell you. No one ever has." His voice sounds sure of this, but his eyes are full of hope.

"I'll believe you." Bellonus reaches out to touch Deomiorix' face, to stroke lightly along his forehead, his broken cheekbone, his cheek. "I'll believe anything you say."

Deomiorix gives another one of those dry laughs. "Let's start with this, then: I'm a freeborn Roman citizen." His mouth quirks. "An equestrian, even."

The words don't make sense at first. If he's freeborn, he can't be a slave. He can't be. And yet, here he is, enslaved. "You couldn't -- you couldn't tell anyone that? You're freeborn? You're a citizen? By Pollux, you should have told--"

Another laugh. "The men who gave me to the slavers knew exactly who and what I was, believe me. And I spent two weeks screaming it, screaming that I was a citizen until my throat was raw and I couldn't speak. No one cares. Everyone's saying the same thing, too, that they're citizens. They say it all the time. Why should I have been believed? None knew me. There was no proof, no citizen to speak up for me. And since then, I haven't tried. There's no point. I would not be believed."

"I believe you," Bellonus says. He knows Deomiorix wouldn't lie, even if this is an impossible thing he is telling him. An equestrian? Like him?

Deomiorix snorts. "Everyone knows no Celt is a freeborn citizen."

That's true enough. None of the British, nor the Gauls, have citizenship, save Cogidubnus, and he has no sons of the right age, nor is he one of the Brigantes. Except, possibly, Bellonus thinks, the former Brigantian queen, Cartimandua, could have been a citizen. Claudius could have given her and her family equestrian citizenship as a reward for her loyalty. But it would have been for her and her family, most likely no one else--

Her family.

Bellonus' mouth goes dry. "You're Cartimandua's son."

Trembling, Deomiorix smiles back at him. "You do believe me."

It explains so much. How he knows Latin, and Greek, and poetry. How he can read and write. "Was she raising you as a Roman, then?"

Deomiorix nods. "I had tutors. I was forever being tutored. I was to be sent to Massilia to learn rhetoric." His mouth quirks. "And then the revolt happened."

"Venutius," Bellonus says, thoughtfully. "Your father, I take it?"

Deomiorix nods. "He won't be particularly happy to see me, I'm sure. His weak, Romanised son. The five years whoring won't particularly help my reputation among the people, either."

"So we'll stay here," Bellonus says, the idea occurring to him as he says it. "You're a citizen; the duoviri can say as much. You'll be free." They can be free together, as equals, better than he ever dreamed--

His dreams are shattered with Deomiorix' next words, harsh reality.

"Don't you think I thought of that? There would have to be proof. There is no proof. There is no one here who knew me in Brigantia and can vouch for me. You've said so yourself," Deomiorix says, "you never met me."

"I'll lie," Bellonus says, instantly. "It's easy enough; I'll say I met you at the queen's court, was introduced to you as her son once--"

Deomiorix is staring at him, wide-eyed. "It's a crime. You'd be caught, Philippos. Your comrades are in Pompeii too, yes? And your commander? They would know you hadn't really met me, because those posted with you would have met me, and they did not. I was never in court when the envoy was. Of that, I am positive."

"And you've no other proof?" Bellonus asks. "What about whatever it was you went back for, there? Surely it can help establish your identity."

A rueful laugh. "It's a bracelet, and, yes, it is uniquely mine. I've kept it this whole time, hidden, but life doesn't work like the plays, Philippos. I am a slave and a whore. They will say I stole it, or a client gave it to me. I would need the testimony of one who saw me in Brigantia wearing it, and, again, as I did not meet any Romans--" His voice trails off.

"Oh." Now what are they going to do? They cannot go to Britannia, and they cannot stay here. "Can I see the bracelet, at least?"

Deomiorix shakes something golden out of the bag he is still clutching. "Why not? Here."

Bellonus puts his hands out, taking the object that falls into them. It is a curving, sinuous band of gold, designed to wrap twice about the upper arm, from the size of it. In the middle it broadens, and there is a horse carved there. He feels a vague twinge of memory.

"I've seen this before," he says, slowly. Where? Where has he seen it?

Another rueful snort from Deomiorix. "The sleek pony is -- was -- my mother's symbol. If you were in her court at all, you probably saw something decorated with it. It wouldn't have been this, though, as this is the only man's armlet made with her symbol, for me. It's been years, I know, and I appreciate what you're trying to do, believe me, but--"

"No," Bellonus shakes his head. "This bracelet. I have seen this very bracelet. I would stake my life on it."

He holds it up, and the gold sparkles in the firelight. Another twinge of memory. Almost. He can almost place it.

Deomiorix is regarding him curiously, Bellonus is aware from the edge of his vision. A smile, in the firelight. "Philippos, what are you--?" A smile. Firelight. It can't be true. Can it be true?

"Put it on," Bellonus says, suddenly. "Please. As you would have worn it then."

Deomiorix, still looking at him as if he is mad, slips the bracelet high on his uninjured arm. It sparkles still in the firelight, and Bellonus reaches out shaking fingers to trace the bracelet's shape against golden skin. And then he remembers everything.

"I know you," Bellonus says, slowly, wonderingly. "I _know_ you. You wore this and nothing else, save a mask, and you held out your hand to me. We jumped across the fire together, and we lay down together in the grass, in the darkness."

Deomiorix' eyes grow wide. "That was... you?"

Bellonus can't help but smile. "That was me."

"All these years," Deomiorix murmurs, and he looks almost as if he could cry. Is he upset? Did Bellonus disgrace his religion?

"I was seventeen, and curious about what was going on," he says, hastily, by way of explanation. "The man I was living with thought it would not bring dishonour upon your people, so I went. I didn't know what it was all about until I got there--"

He stops, as Deomiorix moves. With a shaking hand, Deomiorix reaches to trace the shape of Bellonus' face in the firelight, and he is smiling. Not upset after all. His eyes are still shining.

"I was sixteen," Deomiorix says, almost too quietly to hear. "I'd never -- I'd never been with anyone before then, did you know that?"

Bellonus thinks back to the fumbling, sweet hesitation of the stranger that night, the stranger he never forgot. "I think I guessed that." Somehow, he feels ridiculously honoured. "You weren't my first by far, though I've always remembered that night." The words can't even express half of what he feels. "It was -- I've dreamed it again and again, ever since. No one has ever been quite the same."

He feels like that was an idiotic thing to say, but Deomiorix is nodding along, smiling wider, more incredulously. "It was the God and Goddess working through you, of course. You brought honour."

Bellonus smiles, reassured, but then is distracted by a crass question. He can't stop himself from asking it. "But sixteen, and you'd never -- truly? With anyone?"

Deomiorix' head moves a little, a nod. "I was being kept pure, for -- for sacred things I cannot speak of." It is like the mysteries of Mithras or Eleusis; Bellonus understands, and he does not press further as Deomiorix continues. "I was not to go to Belotenia, but I had a dream, and I knew it was a true dream. The Goddess appeared to me and told me to go to the fires. She told me the one she had picked for me there would come to my aid, in my time of direst need, and this would be her work."

A prophetic dream, then, like Aeneas dreaming of Hector or of the Penates. Bellonus understands this, too. "And you could not refuse that, of course."

Deomiorix nods again. "So I went, and I knew it was you she had picked when you stepped into the circle, though I did not recognise you."

Bellonus raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was not permitted to know who--"

Deomiorix gives a quiet laugh. "That's what they say, but when it comes down to it one can usually recognise the others, at the fires, though sometimes strangers do come from the surrounding area. And I knew you would be a stranger. So I wore the bracelet, in my arrogance."

"Hmm?" He must have missed something. "I'm sorry; I don't understand."

"I thought," Deomiorix says, smiling ruefully, "that anyone would recognise it, even a stranger, and find me later. And then I could know who it was who would come to my aid." He laughs. "I didn't figure on you being a Roman."

"I didn't recognise it," Bellonus says. "I didn't know. But I looked for you, every time I went back to Isurium Brigantum--"

"I thought, all these years, that she had abandoned me," Deomiorix says. His tone is flat, but in his eyes Bellonus can see the years of sadness. "When I was betrayed by your people, when I was sold into slavery, when I was sold to the brothel, there was no one there for me. I thought I had been wrong about everything. And now I see it was you, and she was with me after all." He smiles, looking dazed again, but now incredulous. "Thank you."

Bellonus can think of nothing else to say, so he leans forward and kisses Deomiorix, slowly, deeply. As they pull apart, the fire he built crackles and rises high, then again, and again a third time, for all that it should be low by now.

Bellonus gives a quick glance at the fire. "The fire's rising. Is that a sign of your Goddess? Here it would be an omen." He hardly gives credence to such things, usually, but something about this night makes it all different, like that other long-ago night.

Deomiorix nods and smiles. "It is good that we have the favour of your gods, too. It will go well," he says, with absolute confidence, then abruptly shivers, back to mortality.

Bellonus pulls Deomiorix' blanket high up over his shoulders, over his head, and they sit, looking at each other in this newfound wonder, until Deomiorix laughs.

Bellonus reaches out to pet an errant curl, escaped from the blanket, to trace the shape of his face. "What's so funny?"

Deomiorix shrugs and gestures around them. "You gave me fire, you gave me water, and--" he tugs at the blanket over his head, like a veil. It is bleached wool, hardly the proper orange at all, but Bellonus gets the joke and grins back.

"Thinking that's your flammeum, eh?"

"Even your name's right," Deomiorix says, laughing. "_Ubi tu Gaius_\--"

"If we're picking," Bellonus says, cutting in before he can finish the vows, "I'd rather be Gaia."

Deomiorix blinks a little, and half-smiles. "You? I thought you'd want me to be that one. I think perhaps with time it might not hurt me--"

Bellonus laughs, shaking his head. "You know, it's not that Crassus was lying when he called me a cinaedus. I prefer it, actually, that way." This time, somehow, the words are easier to say -- admitting to this perversion, this illegal act. It is, at least, a thing he has done many times. The least of his perversions, then; or rather, the one he has indulged in the most. And, besides, he's seen Deomiorix' scars. That role is not for him now, not yet.

Another broad grin, this one looking more surprised than the last. "And here I thought--" Deomiorix stops, and he practically mumbles the next words. "I would like that very much. I know it sounds strange, for all that I was sold as a cinaedus, but before everything -- I much preferred the other role anyway. Would still prefer. If you would have me." His face colours a little; Bellonus would have thought there was nothing left for him to be embarrassed about.

"Of course I'll have you," Bellonus says, and then chuckles at his own words. "Or rather, you'll have me."

"Now?" The look in his eyes is hope, half-mixed with pleasure, and Bellonus smiles to see it.

"If you like. If you're able," he adds, with a concerned glance at Deomiorix' arm.

Deomiorix shrugs, seemingly regarding this as a matter of little import. "So I can't put my weight on it. There are ways, trust me." He smiles, and something about the smile gleams with urgency. This is important. This is one of his rituals. Very well; they will honour it.

Bellonus kisses him again and rises, turning to add more wood to the fire, so it will be warm enough in the night. When he turns back, Deomiorix has shifted the blankets over to one side and sits with his back against a tree, body nestled between the roots, almost reclining against it.

Bellonus laughs to see it. "Clever of you. You'll want me to do all the work, eh?"

Deomiorix only smiles and holds out his hand. In the flickering of the fire, it is much like that other night, and Bellonus feels that odd sense, the one he has felt nowhere else, the power and the silence of it. The gods are with them. Someone's gods.

He understands, then, that they are to be silent themselves before it. Their tunics are shed, inconsequential, and they are warm beside the fire. Deomiorix, bracing himself against the tree, arches up to kiss him, again and again, smiling. He is beautiful. Bellonus runs his hands down Deomiorix' body, feeling the roughness of stubble, hair starting to grow back already, and loves it. He kisses his way down Deomiorix' chest, then lower.

Deomiorix gasps, a sound half-cut off, as Bellonus takes him into his mouth. It is easier this time, or perhaps it has grown easier with practice. He feels the trembling of Deomiorix' body under him, the tautness as the man tries not to thrust up, and knows that this is a better compliment than words. But they are not to finish this way, and so he pushes up and reaches for the pot of salve, the one he never thought he'd use for this purpose. Thankfully, it is slick enough. Deomiorix smiles, watching him as he dips his fingers in the salve, then methodically works it into himself. His fingers slide in easily, and out, as Deomiorix watches him, mesmerised. Good. He can do this.

Bellonus kisses him one more time before turning, his back to him, settling slowly back, and he knows Deomiorix understands what to do perfectly well as he feels the pressure of Deomiorix' cock against him, and leans into it, pushing back. Deomiorix gasps, and he can't help but gasp as well, the length of him filling Bellonus. He pushes back as far as he can go, and he feels Deomiorix kiss his back, his neck, wrap his uninjured arm around him. Bellonus is entirely surrounded by him, and he welcomes it. This is his place, something tells him. This is who he is, and this who he ought to be with.

Bellonus starts to move then, sliding back and then up, slowly, slowly, feeling Deomiorix tense and then arch to meet him. They move again, faster, and on the next thrust Deomiorix touches something deep within him, and he groans. _Yes_, he thinks, _do this to me_. But he is hardly passive here, hardly being taken -- rather, he takes as he is taken, and here they meet.

The world reduces itself to this. The feel of Deomiorix within him. The gasps Deomiorix makes with every rise and fall, shaky breaths against his shoulder. The heat of the fire on them. The ground under his hands, as he pushes. This is life.

He knows, from the feel of Deomiorix beneath him, that he isn't going to last much longer. No one is. Deomiorix kisses his neck, and then slowly moves his free hand, tracing a line of heat down Bellonus' stomach, down to his cock. Bellonus smiles, nearly laughs at the feel of it. He swings his hips up, into Deomiorix' hand, and down, back onto him, and everything is exactly, perfectly _there_\--

Bellonus hangs, suspended, on the crest of the wave, the edge of the flame, for an instant and then he is coming, surrounded, as Deomiorix thrusts into him once more, exactly right, and Deomiorix is coming as well, and it is all as it should be.

When he can move again he extricates himself, slowly, then turns to his lover, who kisses him, with eyes closed, all over most of his face, too sated even to see what he is doing. It makes Bellonus smile. He kisses Deomiorix once more, tasting the sweat and heat of him, before pulling the forgotten blanket over both of them. He nestles his head on Deomiorix' shoulder, Deomiorix' arms around him, and they fall asleep together.

Bellonus is at peace.

* * *

They wake with the dawn, to the embers of the cooling fire, dew dampening the grass beneath them. Bellonus knows that Deomiorix is awake too, and he is about to greet him, when Deomiorix draws half a breath and tenses, alert.

"Shh," he says. "Look over there."

Bellonus follows his pointing hand and sees a stag grazing, pure white. Now that is an omen. From Diana, perhaps? No, the virgin huntress would not bless them, hardly, as they are men, and from the look on Deomiorix' face, next to him, he knows this is a sign from his goddess.

A bird of prey calls from somewhere above. Bellonus thinks it could be an eagle. The stag is hardly startled, and remains grazing leisurely, in the presence of this threat, for long minutes more. Now, that is a sign.

Deomiorix watches, enthralled, as the stag disappears deeper into the forest. "She is still with us," he says, quietly.

Bellonus is in no mood to question this, and merely stretches up to kiss him again.

Packing the camp up is a slow process, as they stop here and there to kiss, to touch, to lean into each other. It is well into the first hour before they are fully packed, before they clamber up onto Boukephalos, who leads them unerringly back to the road. And they ride.

Deomiorix' arms tighten around him, later, when the road dips and they come upon their first sight of Pompeii. "You have a plan, Philippos?"

"I have a new plan," Bellonus says. "How would you like to meet some of my friends?"

* * *

A slave opens the door as soon as they knock on it, and Murena comes into the atrium hurriedly, still clutching bread from breakfast -- it is early yet.

Murena looks between the two of them with something halfway between astonishment and suspicion, and Bellonus can only imagine how this must look to him. He is clad only in a tunic, after all, and covered in dirt. Deomiorix is hardly better, wounded besides, and still, with his hair as it is, looks like a cinaedus.

"By Hercules," Murena says, finally, shocked. "Crassus sent a messenger last night saying that one of his slaves had been stolen, or helped to run away, a Celt who acts as a cinaedus," his eye falls on Deomiorix, "and that he knew it was you who had done it. I laughed then, of course, but--"

"It's not what it looks like," Bellonus puts in, hastily. "Well, it is what it looks like, but what it looks like is not what it is." He hopes Murena, having known him for so long, will understand; that is why he is here rather than at his cousin's.

Now Murena and Deomiorix are both staring at him. That didn't help.

"Quintus," he says, trying again. "I'd like to introduce you to Deomiorix. He is a freeborn equestrian citizen, wrongly enslaved, and the legitimate son of Cartimandua."

Deomiorix smiles politely. "Hail."

Murena's mouth drops open. After a few long instants, he recovers, smiles back. "Into my office, both of you," he says, briskly. "Philippos, you're writing Cerialis a message. Right now."

* * *

_C. Cornelius Bellonus Q. Petillio Ceriali salutem dicit.  
I write to thank you for the honour that you have bestowed upon me, and more urgently to beg for your rapid assistance in a matter of some importance to the frontier in Britannia and to myself as well. I am staying at the house of Q. Licinius Murena in Pompeii and I shall provide more details upon your arrival. Si vales, bene est; ego valeo._

He pays for the fastest courier he can find, and the message is sent soon after he dictates it. Murena keeps giving him appalled glances and finally offers him the loan of a toga, which he takes. Bellonus dares not go back to his cousin's house for his until the matter is settled -- he fears what Crassus will have told him -- so that means no Felix either, but one of Murena's slaves helps him drape it properly.

At the sixth hour, just as the baths are opening, Bellonus and Deomiorix head quickly to the nearest public bath, performing the usual ablutions in haste, keeping alert for anyone who might know them. When Cerialis arrives, he ought not to see the heir of Brigantia looking still as though he has spent the night in the forest. On the way back, Bellonus pulls Deomiorix to a halt outside a barber's shop.

"I have become fond of your hair," Bellonus says, quietly, "but I think that this will go better the more you look like an equestrian and the less you look like a cinaedus."

Deomiorix nods and runs his hand through his curls once more, scratching his head as a cinaedus does, grinning. He swings his hips one more time, a last display, and Bellonus smiles as Deomiorix walks into the barber's to be shorn.

It is, Bellonus thinks when they are back at Murena's, quite a transformation. There is nothing of the slave left in Deomiorix, or at least, he can present himself so. Looking at him now, Bellonus would believe him to be a citizen, even without his own testimony. He hopes that it will convince Cerialis as well.

That evening they recline, daringly, next to each other at dinner, just as Bellonus has long wished for. It is perhaps presumptuous of Murena to offer Deomiorix a spot on a couch when nothing has officially been said, but it is good that Murena believes him. Deomiorix fumbles a little, clearly used to eating sitting up, wincing at having to lie on his hurt left arm. It could be better, but as it is Bellonus is already happy. This is what he wanted.

Murena offers them separate cubicula for the night, of course. Bellonus sleeps by himself, only a little lonely, dreaming of eagles and stags.

* * *

Cerialis arrives the next morning. Bellonus comes to his feet, almost reflexively, as the man enters the atrium. The man seems older than he remembered, pale hair thinning more, which is a ridiculous thought when he only hasn't seen him for half a year. But the man's eyes are sharp as ever, intelligent and perceptive as always, and Bellonus watches him take in the sight of Deomiorix as well.

"Sir," Bellonus says, politely. "Thank you for coming."

Cerialis scowls a little and waves a dismissive hand, just as always. "Bellonus, your missives were never 'urgent' even when you were fighting outnumbered with the auxiliaries nowhere to be seen. If you say this is urgent, it is. Now, what can I do for you?" His eyes dart between Bellonus and Deomiorix.

"This is Deomiorix," Bellonus says. "He has been enslaved against his will and was born a free citizen of Rome. An equestrian."

Cerialis snorts. "I suppose you've stolen him from his angry master, then, have you?"

Bellonus has the grace to look ashamed. Cerialis, unfortunately, knows him too well. "Your assistance in declaring his freedom would be appreciated, sir."

"You could have gone to the duoviri for that," Cerialis says, acidly, but Bellonus knows he means none of it. "But this is intriguing, then, a Celt who is a freeborn citizen. How did this come to pass?"

Deomiorix snaps straighter and answers this himself. "I am Cartimandua's son."

The only sign of Cerialis' response is a fractional widening of the eyes. "I think you'd better tell me more about this."

* * *

In Murena's borrowed office, the story comes out.

"You are certain of this man's parentage, Bellonus?"

Bellonus swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tells the highly edited version of the story. "Sir, I met him in Isurium Brigantum years ago; he had then, and still has, a bracelet with Cartimandua's crest."

Cerialis nods, briskly. Approvingly. That part of the worry, at least, is over. "Deomiorix--" he stumbles a little over the sounds, and stops. "Do you have a proper Roman name, as a citizen?"

Deomiorix half-smiles, and Bellonus realises with some shame that he has never even asked. "I was named," he says, "Tiberius Claudius Cartimandius." A matronymic, then, because his citizenship was through his mother, and the first two for the emperor who granted it.

"That's better," Cerialis says. "Very well, Cartimandius. It was my understanding that you were to be evacuated with your mother, five years ago. Can you tell me more?"

"My f-- Venutius was attacking, and she asked Rome for legions. They could send only auxiliaries."

Cerialis nods again. "Go on."

"They woke me in the night, the soldiers," Deomiorix says, looking very far away, "and said I was to go with them. Five men. I did not see my mother, but they said they had already taken her, and would bring me to her. And I believed them, at first, until we were far enough away and they drew swords on me. They--" he chokes a little, "they had to keep me tied up, after that. We rode for days, to the coast, where I met not my mother, but slavers. And these men handed me over to them. I thought," he added, hesitantly, "that these had been Roman orders, to dispose of me and most likely my mother under the guise of friendship." No wonder Deomiorix hated Romans so.

"Soldiers, selling you?" Cerialis sits back in the chair. "This is strange indeed. No, these were none of our orders. I will have it investigated."

Deomiorix looks relieved at that. "Was my mother sold as well?"

"The queen?" Cerialis looks blank for an instant. "She ought to have been evacuated, though I do not know where she would have been sent. I will certainly find her for you, if she lives."

A real smile from Deomiorix then. "She could yet live?"

"She could," Cerialis says, and steeples his fingers together. "In the meantime, as you are her heir -- you are, aren't you?"

Deomiorix nods. "We usually prefer daughters, but I am her only child."

"Do you think," Cerialis asks, "you could rule in Brigantia? I ask this as suffect consul; I would rather quiet the empire's borders."

Bellonus is amazed at this, though he knows it is only a natural question. One day he is a slave set to die, the next he is offered rule of a client kingdom. Will Deomiorix leave him, then, for power? He ought to.

Deomiorix looks up at him, then, and smiles, before shaking his head. "I do not think they will follow me. They enjoy following my father much more, against Rome, and I fear if I went there fighting there would be none left alive to rule by the time I was king."

Cerialis sighs. "A wise answer. Very well," he says, rising. "I will look into the matter of your mother," he adds, hand on the curtain of the doorway.

"Sir," Bellonus asks. "His freedom?"

"Oh, of course," Cerialis says. "I will alert the duoviri and your former owner...?"

"Publius Crassus," Deomiorix says, and Cerialis almost, but not quite, makes a resigned face at the name.

"Very well." Cerialis smiles. "Cartimandius, this is not manumission. I will say that you are free, and have always been so, and have all the rights of a freeborn citizen. And I am sorry for the years you spent in slavery, officially so; this was not our doing. If I can, I will find your mother."

"Thank you," Deomiorix says, weakly. "Thank you very much."

Another nod from Cerialis, with a parting glance at Bellonus. "I'll see you in Rome in the autumn, yes?"

"Certainly," Bellonus says.

And then Cerialis is gone. He can hear the man moving through the atrium, and the outside door opening.

He and Deomiorix look at each other. Deomiorix gives a strange half-laugh and wraps his arms around him. They are safe enough, here, with the curtain shut, and Bellonus kisses him, happy, grateful.

"I'm free," Deomiorix says, in wonder.

"You're free," Bellonus agrees, kissing him again. "Shall I call you Cartimandius?"

Deomiorix shakes his head, smiling. "I already told you my name, Philippos."

"So now what will you do, as a free man?" Deomiorix doesn't have to go with him, of course. He is hardly obligated. But Bellonus hopes--

"Starve, I suppose." A laugh. "I have no money and no property; I am only an equestrian because of my mother, after all."

"Come live with me, in my new villa," Bellonus offers. "I have enough money and land for both of us now. I'll give you half -- I'll adopt you, if you like, so that you will surely be safe from Crassus--" He runs his hands through Deomiorix' now-short hair, missing the curls somehow.

Deomiorix laughs, joyfully. "I'd very much like to live with you. If it wouldn't be an imposition--"

"An imposition? Hardly," Bellonus assures him. "And we are equals enough now, yes, to speak of love freely?"

"We are." Deomiorix nods. "All right. I'll do it."

They kiss once more before pulling the curtain back and heading out into the world as equals and friends, and though the law should not know, as lovers. Bellonus thinks, now, that he has found what he was looking for here, in Pompeii, when he didn't even know he was looking.

* * *

  


* * *

It is a beautiful early autumn day, the trees just beginning to turn, when a slave comes panting, footsteps heavy, inside the villa.

"_Domini_," the slave says, to both of them. "There's a rider coming. The suffect consul."

"Very well, thank you," Deomiorix says, rolling up the scroll he was reading, and giving Bellonus a look. Bellonus can imagine what he must be thinking. Cerialis would only come with news important enough not to entrust to an insecure message.

"Do you think it's about your mother?"

The tense smile Deomiorix gives him is an answer in and of itself.

They stand up, both of them, and go scrambling for their togas, and for slaves to drape them, for it would not do to greet Cerialis only in tunics. The slaves, of course, are used to their informality, Bellonus thinks, and is grateful for that.

The slaves are used to a great many unusual things about them. Bellonus keeps a separate cubiculum, of course, but they all know never to look for him there; he sleeps, forever and always, with Deomiorix in the room next to that one. Their limbs always tangle in the small bed, but neither of them mind that. There is a proper bath in the villa, of course, a small one, and yet another of their quirks is that they bathe together too, with none to attend them. So far none of the slaves have walked in to see him on his knees in front of Deomiorix, but there have been some close moments. They touch incessantly, they recline together, they do a large number of pleasant things in each other's company.

And the slaves who do not become accustomed to this -- well, they do not stay. Privately, Bellonus thinks most of them are grateful to be living in a house where their masters will not make use of them in the usual ways one does with slaves, and it is no matter to them that it is because their masters are devoted to each other.

Felix, still with him, has him draped and dressed neatly, and Deomiorix too, just as footsteps reach the door.

"Hail, Bellonus, Cartimandius," Cerialis says, entering.

"Hail," Bellonus returns, to their welcome but unexpected guest. "Sir, I can offer you hospitality. Wine, perhaps?" It is late enough in the day to be drinking.

"I think, first, the news," says Cerialis. "Cartimandius, I have looked into the matter of your enslavement. The soldiers responsible were in the pay of your father, and they have been prosecuted." He says this with quiet, cold efficiency.

"My father?" This was not the news Deomiorix was expecting.

Cerialis nods, and his eyes look sad. "He paid them a great deal to do it -- and to let your mother know of it."

Deomiorix fixates on the last words of the sentence. "My mother... is alive?"

At this, Cerialis smiles, handing over a wax tablet. "Alive and living in Massilia, and she sends you a message."

Deomiorix flips it open, and Bellonus peers at it over his shoulder. The words aren't Latin; she must have tried to write it down in Celtic, an attempt at privacy.

Deomiorix mouths the words to himself, for a long time, then looks up. "She says she is well and glad to hear of my freedom, and she invites me to visit her in Massilia or come live with her there if I have none to stay with here."

"That is well," says Cerialis. "I had hoped it was good news."

"It is," says Deomiorix, smiling faintly at the tablet. "May I send a message back through you?"

Cerialis nods, and Bellonus beckons a scribe over.

"What are you going to tell her?" Bellonus asks. The voice in his head chants: _Perhaps he would rather visit her in Massilia. Perhaps he would rather live there_.

Deomiorix is still smiling. "I would tell her that I am pleased to visit her, but that she is also welcome to visit me. I have a home in Pompeii now." He grins over at Bellonus. "And a lover," he adds, in Celtic, that Cerialis will not understand.

"So you do," Bellonus says, and Deomiorix embraces him in joy, hard, before turning to the scribe, practically running to the office to dictate a message."

"Well," Cerialis says. "I am glad that worked out well. And I am pleased you have found a friend, Bellonus," he adds, a strange smile on his face. Bellonus will never tell him what they are to each other, but he has a feeling Cerialis knows anyway and understands.

"News like this calls for celebration," Bellonus says, smiling back. "Sir, will you stay for dinner? Or at least wine?"

"I'll have the wine first," Cerialis says, looking pleased. Bellonus knows how much the man will go through, when he has the opportunity. Now, which of the lesser vintages can he serve first...?

"We have Falernian," Deomiorix' voice comes, muffled through the curtain. "In case Philippos here was planning to hide it." Clearly Deomiorix already knows him too well.

Bellonus smiles brightly. "Falernian, sir?"

"Falernian will be excellent."

The message is dictated, the wine is lingered over, yet it seems like much too soon when Cerialis makes his exit.

After Cerialis leaves, Deomiorix turns to him, smiling. They are alone, for once, in the atrium. Bellonus feels Deomiorix' arms wrap about him.

"Looking forward to going to Massilia?"

Bellonus laughs in surprise. "Me?"

"My mother should meet you," Deomiorix says. "She'll like you. Be on your best manners."

"I've met her already," Bellonus says.

"Not like this. Besides," Deomiorix adds, "I hear it's nice in Massilia."

"Not as nice as here," Bellonus says, picturing the chilly weather of Gaul.

"It can be nice everywhere," Deomiorix counters, slipping a hand under Bellonus' toga. "Trust me."

And Bellonus does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy the extended story notes at my LJ, which contain [a bibliography](http://sineala.livejournal.com/939468.html) of primary and secondary sources I used while writing this thing.
> 
> Valete!


End file.
